


At King's College

by George_Sand



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Briset Street, Chemistry, Compton Road, Epilepsy, Kings College, M/M, Molecular Genetics, Seizures, Stamford Street Apartments, Twins, University, Virgin John, Virgin Sherlock, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Sand/pseuds/George_Sand
Summary: How Sherlock and John meet as undergraduate students at King's College.





	1. Acceptance

“Johnny!  John!  You got another one!  King’s!”

Mrs. Watson rifled through the rest of the mail as she called her son.  She had found a large, thick envelope from King’s College – the letter she knew Johnny had waited for with the most anticipation.  Johnny was just finishing secondary school and had submitted applications to several universities.  His easy and affable personality sometimes belied his intellect, but it had shone in the standardized tests and university interviews, and he had already received several acceptances. But Mrs. Watson knew that Johnny was especially keen on King’s, and if prior experience held, the heavy envelope could contain an acceptance letter.  Mrs. Watson felt careful hope. 

Johnny came bounding into the kitchen, not even attempting to mask his youthful exuberance with a cool teenaged façade.  Mrs. Watson and Johnny shared an excited glance before he unceremoniously tore into the envelope.  Papers fell to his feet and he scrabbled for a single sheet of heavy-stock paper with a red emblem on the top.  His lips moved silently while he read until a huge smile broke across his face. 

He looked up at his mum and said, “Yes.”

Then he jumped and pumped his fist in the air yelling, “Yes, yes, YES!”

Jumping and stumbling about the room, Johnny continued to make victorious exclamations while his mum collected papers and brochures from the floor.  She was glad, thinking about the possibilities that had just been opened to her son and she was relieved, knowing that King’s was mere miles away from home. 

She settled in a chair to read about tuition and aid as Johnny ran out of the room shouting, “Harry!”

Harriet and John were twins, and the only Watson children.  Practically polar opposites in personality, interests, and temperament, they were nonetheless inseparable and a perfect example of the nameless, almost preternatural connection that some twins were said to have.  Mrs. Watson heard Johnny telling Harry, very enthusiastically and loudly, about his acceptance.  His shouts were quickly followed by heavy footfalls and a loud thump.  She smiled as she envisioned Harry running to give Johnny such a forceful hug that they both fell to the floor. 

She heard Harry’s voice, joking, “ _Public_ school?  Oh Johnny, I’m so disappointed, couldn’t you do any better?”  but even through the walls, Mrs. Watson could hear Harry’s delight. 

Harry knew that King’s was Johnny’s first choice, was a great university, and that he could do well.  Unlike herself, Johnny was motivated, hard-working, and eager to prove himself.  Harry hadn’t made plans regarding education, or anything else, for after secondary school, but Johnny…this letter proved that he was on his way to his definition of success.

 --

 “William.  I took the liberty of opening your mail.  There are some items of interest here.  It seems that most of the universities in the land are clambering for a Holmes.  I know that despite every effort to the contrary, your academic record is stellar compared to your peers, and apparently your test scores have made up for what I can only assume were disastrous interviews.”

“I can be very likable if I have to be,” Will retorted.

Mycroft Holmes handed a neat stack of papers to his younger brother and Will, for what seemed like the thousandth time, found himself wishing that his brother had not come to stay with the family that weekend.  Will settled himself on the couch before reaching for the mail with a bored expression.  However, as Myk looked on, Will couldn’t hide his impatience as he scanned the pile.  There, between letters from Oxford and University College, he found the red emblem he was looking for.  King’s college!  He grinned and looked defiantly at Myk, holding up the letter.

“You can’t be serious,” said Myk disdainfully, as he raised an eyebrow. 

“Of course I am!” exclaimed Will.  “It’s in London!  Finally, I can live in the city!” As Myk’s other eyebrow ascended, Will added “King’s College is a perfectly respectable university, most of my classmates would kill to go there,” _and they have a good music department_ , he thought. 

“University College is in London.  As are several others,” said Myk.  He was hard to please.  Perhaps he had a soft spot in his heart and only wanted the best for his little brother, or perhaps he was just an ass, but ever since he had graduated from university, Myk had been encouraging Will to study “something useful.”  Myk had planned on doing graduate work after his undergraduate degree, but during his internship with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, he had been heavily wooed and, in the end, snapped up by the government.  Not precisely sure what Myk actually did, Will knew he was rapidly climbing the ranks of the FCO, doing “useful” things for the government.

Will rolled his eyes.  There were plenty of “useful” courses at King’s, he could mingle those with music courses and make quite a good education for himself.  He felt warm excitement in his stomach, and stood to find his parents.  Mum and dad were much less…exacting…than Myk and would probably support whatever course Will chose.  He relished the thought of leaving Sussex for London, a surging congregation of people and knowledge and culture and freedom.

Myk only said, with sarcasm, “I’m sure mummy will be thrilled.”

 


	2. Moving Day

After struggling for a moment with the key, Johnny pushed open the door and walked through the vestibule into Stamford Street Apartments, his mum and sister behind him.  He breathed in the scent of dust, carpet shampoo and Chinese food.  He saw a dozen or so students, milling about in various stages of excitement and trepidation, and their families, in various stages of pride and panic.  There was a boy lounging on a sofa, acting like he owned the room, and a girl who eyed the boy none-too-discretely.  Johnny saw a boy carrying a violin case and another with a pillow and a football.  There was a blonde girl with a tattoo on her wrist talking to another who was struggling to eat lo mien with chopsticks. Johnny hitched up his red duffle and glanced at the paper in his hand for the eighteenth time.

“421, Johnny,” said Harry, rolling her eyes.

“There’s the lift,” said Mrs. Watson, and wound her way toward it. 

Johnny made a conscious decision to quiet his fears and let his excitement take over.  He made friendly eye contact with several students, sending a confident smile to the girl with the tattoo.  Most of the students returned his smile, but some just surreptitiously glanced at Harry.  Johnny and Harry rolled their eyes at each other.  Johnny, Harry, and their mum stepped into the elevator with another boy and his family, and stepped off again at the fourth floor.  Room 421 was down the hall to the left, and as Johnny pushed open the sticking door, he felt freedom.  This tiny, dim room with peeling paint and battered furniture was _his_!  All his, where he could make his own choices with no one watching over him!  

He knew Harry felt it to, because she murmured, “Brilliant!” into the dingy space.

Johnny launched his duffle joyously onto the unmade bed and put his hands on his hips. 

He turned to his mum and said “Right.  Let’s unpack!”

When he had stuffed most of his clothes in the drawers, Harry had thrown his knick knacks on the desk, and his mum had made his bed, Johnny looked around with pride.

Clearly suppressing emotion, Johnny’s mum said, “Well, we’ll leave you to it!  I love you Johnny!”  She gave him a big, long hug, and he was glad his door was closed. 

Harry gave him a quick hug and said, “Good luck!”

Johnny watched without trepidation as they walked down the hall.  Six seconds later he got a text.  It was from Harry.

_Go for the one with the tattoo!  Love you!_

\--

Will quietly slipped through the door of Stamford Street Apartments, carrying his violin case.  Myk was following primly behind.  As they entered the house, an awful smell assaulted Myk’s nose and he audibly gasped. 

“Will…Will…” said Myk, almost speechless, repelled by the sights, sounds and smells of the life teaming before him. 

Will simply stood, eyes darting side to side, looking at his fellows, feasting his senses.  He ascertained that the house was home to students in different courses, but only first years.   The house was co-ed but he noticed mostly male-driven notices on the pin board.  He deduced that there were several eateries, including a Chinese buffet, within a three block radius.  He observed his brain catching and discerning these things, and didn’t know how he was doing it.

Then he realized that Myk was speaking. “…not too late, I’m sure mother could talk to the Board and get you into Oxford before classes start.”

But Will just replied slowly, “No…no this is good.”  Then more normally, “Come on, help me.”

They slipped through the crowd to the lift and entered it.  Will still wasn’t sure if it had been wise of him to allow only Myk to accompany him as he moved in.  Myk was obviously judging King’s against his alma mater, and finding King’s to be lacking.  Of course, mum and dad did tend to get overly sentimental in situations like this, and Will knew that Myk’s cool practicality would help him move in efficiently and without an emotional scene. They exited the lift, turned left and easily found room 521.  It was much quieter here than in the common room and Will’s brain slowed a bit.  Myk eyed the small room with horror, but seemed to gradually relax as they methodically unpacked and organized Will’s belongings.  

After quite some time, when everything was systemized, Myk faced Will and said, “Best of luck, brother mine,” and took his leave.  Will stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling, smiling.  Half an hour later, he sent Myk a text.

_Thanks Myk_

_Not at all. - MH_

\--

Looking up from Harry’s text, Johnny saw that the door across from his was open.  Looking inside, he saw a smiling boy whose family had also departed. 

Johnny recognized him as the pillow-and-football boy from the common room and called, “All right?  I’m Johnn” - he caught himself and decided to make his first step into adulthood.

“John,” he said.  “My name is John Watson.”

“Hey, I’m Mike Stamford, good to meet you.”

The two talked about fussing families, moving in, and football, and found each other to be likeable and friendly.  One of them suggested getting something to eat.

“I saw a girl with Chinese takeaway,” recalled John.  “She must have gotten it nearby.” 

The two went downstairs, made some inquiries, and set off for dinner.

 --

As Will lay on his bed, a sudden and overwhelming feeling of peace and well-being flooded through his body.  He closed his eyes and let it wash over him, knowing that in a few seconds it would dissipate.  When it did, he reluctantly went to the cupboard to find something, then decided to go downstairs into the fray.  As he entered the common room, he saw the boy that had been there when he had first arrived.  Then, the boy had almost seemed to preside over the room from the central sofa, and now, seemed to be working the room not unlike a politician.  He shook hands and chatted and laughed loudly, indiscriminately, with each student.  It wasn’t long before the boy approached Will.  

 “Hello, my name is Sebastian Wilkes.  Isn’t it an exciting day!?  I’m glad I moved in today, rather than tomorrow.  It gives me a day without classes to, ah, scope out the scenery, if you know what I mean.”  He laughed heartily and nodded conspiratorially toward a group of girls.  “You can call me Seb.  What’s your name?”

Will unintentionally observed, _Oldest child, fastidious about appearance, likely perfect marks in secondary school_ , took Seb’s extended hand and said, to his own great surprise, “Sherlock Holmes.  Good to meet you.”

Seb’s looked impressed when he heard the unusual name, but then apparently saw someone more interesting across the room.  Seb quickly said, “Good to meet you,” and sidled away, leaving Will to wonder why he had blurted out his middle name.

Sherlock?  Well, it certainly was distinctive.  He realized that no one was likely to forget that name once he had introduced himself, and wondered if that was a good or a bad thing.  But, he had introduced himself as Sherlock to social-butterfly-Seb, so he might as well go on with it.  He shrugged to himself as he moved toward the vestibule and thought, _I’m Sherlock now_.

Sherlock opened the vestibule door and emerged into the fall evening.  Everywhere he looked, students were bidding goodbye to their families.  His eyes bounced from face to face.  _Permed hair…contraband goldfish…twin…can’t stand her sister_ …his brain was a rushing stream of conscious but unbidden deductions, and he felt exhilarated.  All these people, all these sights and sounds and smells were a playground for his senses, and he basked in his new surroundings.  Sherlock walked around campus all evening and into the night, taking in everything he could.  Finally, when the campus was dark and only a few other students were about, he returned to his house, flung himself on his bed, and slept.


	3. Final Exams

John opened his eyes at the sound of his alarm clock.  The clock that had been waking him at the same time, five days a week, for four months.  He couldn’t believe that the term was already over, and that today he would sit for his first final exam.  He hoped, and almost knew, that he had prepared thoroughly and that his studies would pay off. After showering and dressing, he left his room and knocked on Mike’s door.  It immediately swung open.  

“Let’s do this,” said Mike bracingly.

At the beginning of term, John and Mike had quickly discovered that they were both hoping to go into medicine.  To that end, John had chosen the Molecular Genetics course and Mike had chosen Chemistry.  They had several first year lectures together and had become a great source of comfort and discipline for each other.  They commiserated about professors, encouraged each other to study, and could be found together most evenings at the Franklin-Wilkins Library.  Occasionally, Mike would bring along his lab partner, a quiet boy with sharp eyes that seemed to study the students around him, not his books.  John easily accepted his presence because he served as a convenient (although unconventional) reference as he and Mike studied, clarifying finer points of chemical reactions and providing various molecular weights from memory.  Over time, through the few snippets of conversation in which John could engage him, John learned that the boy studied both Chemistry and Music, grew up in Sussex, and played the violin.  His name was Sherlock Homes. 

John’s phone buzzed in his hand and he looked at the text that had just come.  

 _Today, right?  Good luck and all that, not that you need it.  Love you!_  

“Harry?” asked Mike

“Who else?” said John, happily.

\--

Sherlock wandered into the lecture theatre, sluggish and bedraggled.  He slumped into a chair, glad to have remembered that the final exam had been scheduled for today.  He made a face, then sat up straighter, scanning for the backs of Mike Stamford’s and his friend’s heads.  He found them, and from behind, they seemed composed.  Although Sherlock’s head swam, he worked quickly and finished before the other students.  As he left the lecture theatre he massaged his forehead with the heels of his hands.  

Sherlock wandered back to the house, alone.  As usual, he found Seb on a couch in the common room, surrounded by two other boys and a girl.  Sherlock had seen Seb and the girl _Emma? Emily?_ together quite a bit, and it didn’t take a Holmes to deduce that she was Seb’s girlfriend.  At first, upon discovering that she studied Psychology, Sherlock had been vaguely interested in talking with her.  However, he was soon disappointed by her poor grasp of her course material and repelled by her vapid stupidity.  Seb was bright and seemed to get on with everyone he met; Sherlock couldn’t fathom why he would choose her, _Anna?_ , to date.  He watched her lazily cling to Seb as he beckoned Sherlock.

“Sherl!  Come meet my boys from the Strand!”

Then turning to one of the others, “This is Sherlock, he does the most amazing trick!”

Sherlock came forward and allowed Seb to introduce him.  Despite his torpidity, Sherlock was aware of his brain collecting data and formulating conclusions about the boys and girl that now surrounded him.  He turned to the closest boy.

“You are left-handed.  You study Business with Seb at the Strand campus.  You just ate a biscuit,” said Sherlock.

The boy looked at Seb and said, “Well that wasn’t very impressive,” but Sherlock continued. 

“You have a dog at home, at your parents' house.  A small breed, less than six months old.  You wear glasses, but only when you absolutely have to, because they give you a headache.  You do your laundry at your parents’ house – and, actually, you’ll be seeing them later today.  Right?”

At that the boy looked impressed and laughed delightedly. 

“Brilliant!  Seb was right about you.  Do it again!”

Sherlock’s brain had already begun searching the third boy, and without hesitation rattled off, “You, Tom, I think?  No coffee tonight.  It may be helping you stay awake, but the time you spend studying after midnight would be better spent sleeping.  The little you manage to learn in those late hours is totally offset the by exhaustion you feel the next day.  Less caffeine will also help your nerves, which are practically in shreds.  But don’t worry, you did fine on your exam today, ahead of most of your class, I’d say.”

Seb laughed, thoroughly pleased, while Tom stared at Sherlock.

Tom said to Seb, “You didn’t tell us he was a fortune-teller as well!” then to Sherlock, “You think I did all right?”

Sherlock walked toward the lift as he called, “Of course you did.  Stop biting your fingernails!”

As he rode the lift to 521, Sherlock felt elation swell within him, radiating from his heart out through his fingers, a warm glow of satisfaction.  He basked in the sensation for a few seconds as he rode and exited the lift, but his right arm twitched as he entered his room.  He grabbed something from the cupboard, took a quick drink of water, and gently laid on his bed.  His arm twitched again as he considered Seb and his friends.  Sherlock didn’t mind Seb, nor Seb’s requests that Sherlock show off his “tricks.”  Sherlock enjoyed discovering and honing his deductive abilities, and Seb provided him with subjects and an audience.  The boys were nice enough, reacting with awe and not mockery, and Sherlock admitted to himself that he liked the interactions.

Sherlock’s mind turned to Seb’s girlfriend, _Amy?  Right, Amy_ , and he unconsciously grimaced.  Did Seb think he was in love with her?  She certainly seemed attached to his arm at all times.  From what he had seen in secondary school, and now with Seb, “love” was defined in Sherlock’s mind as a nonsensical label that could be slapped on almost anything.  “Love” could describe an advantageous connection between members of different social circles, a prize to flaunt in front of peers, or even a cure for boredom.  Sherlock wasn’t sure what Seb and his girlfriend gained from their connection.  From what he could tell, Seb’s gregarious personality offset Amy’s vacuous nature, which was potentially advantageous to her, but what did she offer Seb?  Sherlock had already surmised that they weren’t very intimate, so Seb couldn’t just be using her for physical affection.  Sherlock quieted a movement in his arm by grabbing the wrist with his other hand.  He rolled over, considering Seb, Amy and “love”, and dropped off to sleep. 

Sherlock woke after tea time to the sound of a text alert.

_How are you. –MH_

Sherlock knew it wasn’t an idle question.  He lied about diet but was otherwise truthful.

_Eating well.  Got 3 hours of sleep last night.  Sat an exam with no problem today._

_Are you keeping records.  –MH_

_Yes, dear brother, a list in my pocket._

_Glad to hear it, Will.  Or is it Sherlock now?  –MH_

Not bothering to wonder how his brother knew about his name, he typed,

_I guess its Sherlock now.  Myk.  Or Mycroft?_

_Whichever you prefer.  –MH_

Sherlock sighed heavily.  After a few moments of idly sitting, he decided to go to the library.  His lab partner, Mike Stamford, was usually there at a consistent table, day after day, studying companionably with his friend.  In contrast to Seb, who provided stimulus and an audience, Mike provided stillness and unimpressed acceptance.  Sherlock found it relaxing to sit across from him and his friend, listening to their pens scratch and their pages turn.  He watched them learn and listened to their studious exchanges, providing input when asked.  He sometimes even joined their friendly banter as they walked across the street between the house and the library.  Decided, Sherlock grabbed a textbook at random, paused, then a package of crisps.  He didn’t recall when he last ate and felt a familial duty to Mycroft to digest something.  He ate as he made his way to the library.

\--

John looked up from his book as Sherlock Holmes approached him and Mike at the library.  He nodded affably as Sherlock slipped into a chair across the table from him. 

Glancing at Mike’s paper, Sherlock said, politely “Eighteen”, causing Mike to review what he had just written. 

Mike said, “Hello, thanks, how did the exam go?”

He had noticed Sherlock return it to their professor before he was halfway done.

“Fine, thanks.  You seemed happy afterward.  So did you, John.” 

Mike and John nodded, showing that they felt good about their performance, and John recalled Sherlock holding his head after the exam.

“You all right?” he asked Sherlock.  “You looked pretty bad, migraine or something?”

Sherlock replied dismissively, “Something.”

Mike and John settled back into their books, Sherlock observing.  John thought, as he had several times before, about the odd effect of Sherlock’s gaze.  Being stared at by anyone else made John self-conscious and uncomfortable, but he was strangely unaffected by Sherlock.  He glanced up and smiled as he leafed through his notes and saw Sherlock looking pleasantly back at him.

As evening became night, the boys returned to their house.  As John messed about his room, getting ready for bed, he heard the familiar strains of a violin seeping through his ceiling.  He knew there were music rooms in the basement of the house in which music students were supposed to practice, but he didn’t mind the sound.  The musician was good, and usually played tranquil pieces.  Tonight it lulled John to sleep, distracting him from worrying about tomorrow’s final.

 


	4. Sherlock

Spring semester began and John and Mike returned to their studies with renewed vigor. They continued to encourage each other, even though Mike was starting to spend more and more time with a girl named Kate. John had gone on plenty of dates, including with the Tattoo Girl, but no one seemed to strike his fancy. He was, however, happy for Mike and liked Kate, even if Mike did spend a little less time at the library studying with him. Kate studied Maths, had a congenital limp, and seemed good-natured and kind. A good match for Mike. Sometimes Kate would come to Mike and John’s favored table at the library after they studied to meet up with Mike. John always gazed after them as they walked away. Kate didn’t need help, but Mike would always put her hand on his arm or place his hand lightly on the small of her back. John could tell that they both liked the touches. One evening he found himself watching them particularly wistfully and admitted to himself that he longed for a similar connection, a closeness with someone who understood and accepted him. He blinked and looked back to his book. He grabbed it and his other things and headed back to his house.

As he shoved open the sticky door to his room, John could hear the familiar violin. He dropped his bag in the corner and sat on the uncomfortable wooden chair to take off his shoes. He listened to the music, a slow and melancholy piece, until suddenly he heard a discordant scratching and a loud thud. After a moment of quiet, John heard violent sycophantic pounding, and he knew something was wrong. He ran out of his room and up the stairs to 521, which he guessed was the room right above his.

John heard only silence, but knocked urgently and called, “All right?”

There was no reply. John pushed on the door and, unlocked, it swung open. There on the floor was Sherlock Holmes, unconscious and deathly pale with blue lips. Frozen with fear, it took John a moment to recover his voice before he could call for help, but as he took a breath to do so, Sherlock also took a deep shuttering breath, and his lips turned pink. John took a few quick strides, then knelt beside Sherlock.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, what happened?” he cried, shaking and patting his shoulder.

John didn’t see any blood or obvious injuries, and as he continued calling his name and asking if he was all right, Sherlock smiled, then opened his eyes. He stared unseeingly for a moment, then seemed to comprehend John’s presence.

“Hello?” said Sherlock, looking straight at John, but without recognition. “Hello?”

John was scared but answered, “Hello Sherlock, its John. John Watson. I’m here to help. What happened?!”

But Sherlock just continued to look blankly about the room, repeating, “Hello?”

John shouted for help, but the floor seemed quiet and no one answered. Where was everyone?! He wanted to go for help, but was afraid to leave Sherlock alone.

As Sherlock peered, questioning, into John’s eyes, John decided to stay on and wait it out. Sherlock wasn’t as pale now, and maybe when he came round he could explain what happened. John watched Sherlock for over half an hour before Sherlock’s questioning Hellos resolved into a statement.

“Hello, John.”

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock’s and saw recognition and lucidity.

“Sherlock, are you all right? What happened?”

Sherlock replied thinly but calmly. “I must have had a fit.”

Sherlock noticed the panic in John’s eyes but didn’t pay attention to John’s hysterical gasps and mumbles. He wearily rummaged in his pocket and found a piece of paper.

“Will you read this please? Just the last line.”

Bewildered and concerned, John read aloud “L, 16:00”

Whatever it meant, it seemed to make sense to Sherlock because he murmured, almost to himself, “So I took it on time. But I didn’t sleep much last night and I don’t think I ate today.”

Utterly bewildered, John asked one last time, firmly, “Sherlock. What happened.”

Sherlock looked straight up at John and said sleepily, “I have epilepsy. It happens. I’ve learned to deal with it.”

But his arm twitched and John reflexively reached for it. As Sherlock’s hand flopped to the floor John’s hand came down on top of it, his palm pressing on the back of Sherlock’s hand, pushing it into the ground. Sherlock looked at it impassively, then closed his eyes.

He said, “I’m fine, I’m just very tired. I usually sleep for a few hours after,” and opened his eyes to look longingly at his bed.

John helped him up and Sherlock fell into bed.

He mumbled, “Thank you,” as his eyes fluttered closed.

John, confused, didn’t know what to do. What if Sherlock had another fit? What if he fell off the bed and hurt himself? John walked slowly toward the door, wavered, then back to the bed. Sherlock’s breaths were quick and shallow, and his brow was furrowed in his sleep. Tentatively, John sat down on the floor next to Sherlock’s bed. He decided to wait a while in case anything else happened. After a long time, John noticed that Sherlock’s breaths had become deep and even, and his brow and face were relaxed. John stood. Registering the violin on the floor for the first time, he quietly picked it up and laid it in the open case on the desk. Then he crept to the door, looking back at Sherlock before softly closing it and returning to his room.

\--

A few days later, Mike and John were studying at their table in the library, Sherlock looking on. John had felt some apprehension when Sherlock had approached, but Sherlock acted like nothing had happened, and John followed suit. But he kept careful watch on Sherlock through the corner of his eye, as if expecting him to fall to the floor at any moment. Mike seemed to notice that John was distracted, but didn’t say anything. After a while, Kate came to meet Mike and Mike took her hand as he said goodbye to John and Sherlock. Glancing at Sherlock, John noticed an expression that could only be described as bliss as they watched Mike and Kate turn the corner. John heard a little humming exhale from Sherlock and turned, surprised, at the sound. As he turned, Sherlock’s arm jerked, obviously involuntarily. Without thinking, John clapped his palm to the back of Sherlock’s hand, pinning it to the table. At the contact, Sherlock seemed to come out of a reverie, and looked down at John’s hand on his.

Sherlock smiled and said, “Wonderful,” and sighed again as he studied John’s disbelieving, nervous expression.

John looked right back into Sherlock’s impassive eyes and asked, “What the hell, Sherlock? Your arm just flops around on its own and you disappear into happy little daydreams? What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry John. My brother says it’s…interesting…to watch. They’re called auras, little fits that just last a few seconds. They’re indescribable. It’s like…like…brilliant happiness, like riding a shooting star in slow-motion,” then, smiling, "Probably what it feels like to be high."

He looked at John’s hand again and withdrew his own from under it.

Sherlock didn’t make eye contact as he admitted, “Sometimes I skip my medicine so I can have the auras.” John felt a sadness radiating from Sherlock as he continued, “Tonic-clonic seizures, the big ones like I had on Monday, can come after them though.”

Then Sherlock glanced to John’s eyes again and said briskly, “But they almost never do. Last week was the first one I’ve had in quite a while.”

Then, after a pause, “Thank you.”

John replied, “No problem, but how can you…What if…Don’t you just feel like a ticking time bomb all the time? How can you be so calm about it?!”

“I’m okay if I take my medicine. And if I sleep and eat fairly regularly. My brother Myk, Mycroft, worries about me and nags me constantly. He makes me keep a list of when I take my medicine; I actually do it because it keeps him off my back…and it can be useful. As you saw on Monday.”

 _L, 16:00_ , thought John.

He blurted, “So, are you? Taking care of yourself?” then realized he sounded like his own mum.

John continued, “Sorry, I’m just trying to understand…” and, feeling uncomfortable, joked lamely, “I don’t want to be woken up in the middle of the night by you thrashing about above me.”

John smiled apologetically but Sherlock smiled back comfortably.

“Thanks John. Mycroft will be happy to know that I have a friend…that can help him nag me, I mean.”

Sherlock stood to go and John mumbled something about staying to finish up. As Sherlock walked away, John got a text.

_What’s wrong?_

John closed his eyes in disbelief. How did Harry always know?! Before he had time to answer, another text came.

_Haven’t heard from you in a couple days. You okay?_

John exchanged some superficial texts with Harry as he walked back to the house, then changed and got into bed. As sleep came, he heard the violin above him begin to play, and he smiled.

 


	5. Involvement

The next day, John and Mike studied together as usual.  As they became absorbed in their books, Sherlock appeared and wordlessly slid into a chair across the table.  A dance of peeks, glances, and fleeting looks began to take place.  Sherlock looked around the room observantly, as usual, but constantly looked back at John.  John found himself glancing up to meet his stare more often than usual, curious, but not uncomfortable.  Then John would peek at Mike to see if he noticed.  Mike kept glancing between them.  After half an hour or so, Mike stretched, claimed his was suddenly ravenous, and quickly gathered his things to go.  As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock stood and, very deliberately, walked around the table to sit in the chair next to John. 

Sherlock said a quiet “Hi.”

John replied, “Hi.” 

After a moment of looking at each other, John turned back to his studies, and Sherlock’s eyes began to wander about the room.

\-- 

A couple of days later, John got a call from a blocked number.  He answered, but before he had a chance to say Hello, a business-like voice said, 

“John Watson. This is Mycroft Homes, Sherlock’s older brother.”

Bewildered, John said, “Oh.  Hello.”

“It has come to my attention that you have made acquaintance with my brother, and that you have, on least one occasion, offered him help during a time of need.” 

“Um, I guess so, once after he –“  but John was cut off.

“I’d like to thank you for your kindness.  I worry about Sherlock, for obvious reasons,” the voice became disdainful at the last two words, and John guessed that it referred to Sherlock’s self-care, or lack thereof.

“I appreciate your involvement with my brother.  If there is anything I can do to help you, or if you identify anything that Sherlock may need, please do not hesitate to contact me.  I’ll text you my number in a moment.” 

John thought, _Involvement?_ then said, “Oh.  Kay.  Thanks.” 

“Much obliged,” said Mycroft, and hung up. 

\-- 

The next time Sherlock came to the library, John was there without Mike. 

Sherlock immediately took the chair next to John and said his subdued “Hi.” 

Sherlock watched as an array of thoughts flashed behind John’s eyes, but couldn’t define any of them.

John said “Hi,” back.  

Sherlock watched John’s head turn back to his book, but their eyes never broke contact.  Then, after a moment, John’s eyes dropped to his papers and Sherlock relaxed into the chair.

\--

These types of interactions continued for a week or so, with Mike becoming more and more scarce.  John vaguely wondered if Kate had started becoming more demanding of Mike’s time, but really didn’t mind.  

John, with or without Mike, always arrived at the library before Sherlock…until one night, he didn’t.  As he approached the table, he saw Sherlock’s eyes darting about the room and his heels tapping on the ground.  John was inwardly pleased when they made eye contact and Sherlock immediately relaxed.  John took the chair next to Sherlock.

John said a gentle “Hi.”

Sherlock replied, “Hi.”

And John opened his books.

\--

The next night, Sherlock took his seat next to John and immediately put his head on the table.  He was tired, but had definitely taken his medication before coming to the library.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

And Sherlock laid his head on the table, using his arms as a pillow, facing away from John.  Sherlock wasn’t sure if he dozed, but he thought he felt a hand gingerly touch his hair, winding a lock around its finger.  Then his own hand flopped and John roused him. 

John said, commandingly, “Let’s get something to eat." 

\--

The following afternoon, John found himself at the library, with Mike, without Sherlock.  As time passed and Sherlock didn’t come, John became more and more uneasy.  Mike noticed, and after a while straightened up and faced John. 

“Go.” 

“What?” said John 

“Go.  Go find him.  It’s okay.” 

Mike smiled and gave John an encouraging and knowing look.  Almost like he knew something that John didn’t. 

John said, “Right,” packed up his things, and left.

Soon, not quite sure what he was doing there, John found himself in front of 521, listening to Sherlock’s violin through the door.  Hesitant to disturb the music, and perhaps for other reasons, John waited for a lull before he knocked.  Sherlock opened the door with a confused, but not unhappy look. 

Sherlock said, “Hi.”

John replied, “Hi,” then continued, a little self-consciously, “I didn’t see you at the library, just thought I’d come round…you know…” he trailed off.

Sherlock, still holding his instrument, raised the bow and lightly drew the tip down one of John’s fingers.  “Thanks.” 

“Umm, yeah, well, I’ll see you later.  Come tomorrow, okay?  To the library?”

And Sherlock smiled and said, “Okay.”

John wandered back to his room and sat down on his bed with a huff.  He pulled out his phone, held it for a minute, unsure, then sent a text.

_I have a problem._

Harry immediately replied, _What’s up?_

_I think I’ve met someone interesting_

_Great!  The tattoo girl?_

_No_

_So what’s the problem?_  

John didn’t know what to say.  When he didn’t text back, his phone rang.  Harry.  He didn’t answer.  She texted again. 

 _Later, then.  Love you Johnny_.

In the morning, John tried again.

_Hey_

And Harry texted back immediately, _Hey_

John typed _, I think I’m interested in Sherlock_.  He paused and closed his eyes.  With monumental effort, he pressed send.

_Crazy name!  Is she in your house?  Your classes?_

John put his hand to his face for a moment, then typed, _It’s not a girl’s name_.  Send.

After a pause, his phone rang.  He answered. 

\--

After classes, John and Mike went to the library, and again, when Sherlock came, Mike made his excuses and gathered his things.  He looked at John, raising his eyebrows and smiling as he walked away. 

Sherlock moved to the chair next to John and said, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Sherlock put his head on the table, right next to John’s hand, his face turned away.  John couldn’t resist; he gently touched a curl with the tips of his fingers.  He took the curl and wound it around his finger.  He laid his hand on Sherlock’s head and gently dragged his fingers through his hair.  Then he turned to his books.  Just as he was becoming engrossed in studying, he felt Sherlock’s hand on his knee.  At first on the kneecap, it slid inward until Sherlock’s fingers were curled just under the back of John’s knee.  It was surprising, but not unpleasant, and after a moment, John returned to his studies.

After quite some time, John’s mind emerged from his books.  Sherlock’s hand was still at John’s knee.  After looking at the hand for a moment, John’s eyes wandered up to Sherlock’s hair, and again, he couldn’t resist touching it.  Almost as soon as he did, Sherlock turned his head to face John, then laid it back down on his arms.  

“Have you eaten?” 

“Yes.”

“Have you taken your medicine?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you slept enough?”

“Enough.” 

“Can we go back to the house?”

“Yes.”

 


	6. Not a Problem

As they walked the short distance to the house, Sherlock and John made light small talk, interspersed with slightly awkward silences.  Once in the common room, they quietly waited for the lift, not speaking, barely moving, hardly looking at each other.  When they entered the lift, Sherlock reached to press “5”.  As his arm dropped back down to his side, John’s hand lifted too, but instead of pressing “4”, he lightly caught Sherlock’s hand, then arranged it in his own and held it gently.  When the lift doors opened, they turned down the hall to 521.  John let go of Sherlock’s hand while Sherlock worked to unlock and open the door.  They walked in and it shut with a thud behind them.

“Okay,” said Sherlock.

“Now what?” asked John.

Sherlock sat on his bed, elbows on his knees, hands steepled at his chin.  “I don’t know.”

John began, tentatively, “I’ve never…I mean I’ve dated…gone on lots of dates…with a lot of girls.  I don’t know what’s going on.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.  “I’ve never been interested in anyone, never thought about it before.  It isn’t really my thing.”

John stated, “I talked to my sister this morning,” then, by way of explanation, “I have a twin sister, Harry.  Harriet.”

Sherlock looked at John with interest.

John continued, “I told her I had a problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“You,” John blurted out before doubt and, indeed, fear, could take over.

Silence.  Sherlock just watched John, expressionless.

Finally John said, “Harry doesn’t think you’re a problem.  That _it’s_ a problem.  She said I should go for it.”  And then, “For _you_.”

At the last two words, John turned bright red and a small smile came to Sherlock’s lips. 

“So go for it,” said Sherlock, nervous but earnest.

John threw his hands into the air. 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, I don’t know how.  With girls I usually, I don’t know, take charge, get it going, try to be really slow and feel it out.  I don’t know what to do with you.”

But by the time he had finished, Sherlock had stood, strode over to John, grabbed his shoulders, and pushed him firmly against the wall.  Sherlock looked intensely at John for a moment, seeing surprise but not fear or resistance.  Trying to shove his own panic beneath action, Sherlock forcefully pushed his lips against John’s.  Both surprised and confused, neither made any motions, and Sherlock continued to look at Johns eyes, now closed, for a moment.  Then John made a questioning, but not complaining noise, and began to move his lips.  Sherlock followed.  They kissed aggressively, John trying to define his role, Sherlock trying to comprehend this new experience.  Then Sherlock’s hands moved from John’s shoulders, one to his back, one to the nape of his neck, and the kiss gentled.  It continued for some time before John ended it.  He wiped the back of his hand across his wet mouth, eyes sparkling.

He said, “Right, well, that didn’t seem very problematic,” then mused, “You’re taller than me.”

Sherlock smiled, “Yep,” and his arm twitched.

John noticed and said, “Okay, you need to sleep.  See you tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Umm, the library.  Then maybe somewhere after,” and he blushed and touched the arm that had twitched.

\--

Mike and John were at the library, but when Sherlock appeared and sat next to John, Mike smiled and began to stand.

Staring at his book and blushing, John said, “You don’t have to go.  It’s okay,” and, looking up, gestured a few times between himself and Sherlock.

Mike’s smile grew.  “Awesome, guys.  Maybe I _will_ stay on then.”

Sherlock moved his chair closer to John’s, put his head down, and put his hand around John’s knee.  He wasn’t sure if Mike could see, and he didn’t really care.

A few minutes later, John’s hand had wandered over to Sherlock’s head and was absently twirling a lock of his hair.  His expression turned sheepish as he realized what he had been doing, but when he glanced up anxiously at Mike, Mike just rolled his eyes good-naturedly.  John grinned and left his fingers in Sherlock’s hair as he returned to studying.

A few hours later, John and Sherlock found themselves in 521.

They talked for a while, then incongruously, John said, “So.  Mike.”

Sherlock burst out laughing.  “I love it when you mess with my hair, but it’s not very subtle, is it.”

“Guess not.  But he’s been giving me looks for ages, like he knew something.”

“And he’d always leave when I’d come sit at the table.”

“Bastard knew before I did,” said John, coming to sit next to Sherlock on the bed.

They turned to each other, smiling.  Sherlock put his hand on John’s knee and John leaned in.  After one or two slow kisses, they moved closer to each other and John put his hands around Sherlock’s back.  They kissed energetically, vying for control.  After a moment, John gave up and let Sherlock take the lead.  He felt Sherlock’s hands holding his face, the way he, John, had done to several girls in the past.  So interesting…so wonderful to be held and guided like this by Sherlock.  He felt a shove and somehow found himself lying on the bed, Sherlock’s body suspended over him between his knees.

Sherlock was surprised to find himself hovering above John on his bed.  Had he initiated this?  He didn’t know what had inspired him to take John’s face in his hands.  He didn’t know what had made him push John against the wall yesterday.  But he did know that it was amazing.  Sherlock’s thoughts were going a mile a minute, but they were dominated by a sensation – the feel of John’s lips on his own.

Sherlock’s back hunched so that both their faces and their hips aligned, and dropped his hips onto John’s.  They could feel each others' erections.

John thought, S _o that’s what it feels like to be on the bottom,_ then sat up.

He said teasingly, “You move kind of fast, don’t you.”

Sherlock replied, “I don’t know, I’ve never done this before.”

Then Sherlock slid close to John, and they were back to their original position, sitting facing each other on the bed.  As he leaned to kiss John, Sherlock noticed a definite passivity in John, but John’s warm hands were on his thighs, and he saw an inviting, anticipatory look in John's eyes.  Sherlock somehow knew that John wanted him to continue.

John watched Sherlock lean toward him and he willingly met Sherlock halfway.  He was intentionally passive and only responded as Sherlock experimented and explored, at one point even feeling Sherlock’s finger tracing his lips while they kissed.  Sherlock’s hand at their mouths was both intriguing and a hindrance, and after a moment John grabbed his wrist and and ripped his hand away.

Then he said gruffly, “I’m not made of glass, you know,” and lunged onto Sherlock, pushing him down on the bed.

Now John was on top, his mouth working with Sherlock’s, his erection on Sherlock’s stomach.  He despaired that their bodies didn’t align and sat back up, pulling Sherlock roughly with him.  After a few moments of aggressive kissing, John climbed off the bed, yanking Sherlock with him.  John quickly backed up a few steps, never breaking the kiss, and slammed his own back against the wall.  Sherlock bit John’s lip and John’s hands flew up around Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock was surprised when John jerked him off the bed and dragged him to the wall.  John flung his own back to the wall and pulled Sherlock against himself, using Sherlock’s body to pin himself against the wall.  Sherlock had accidentally bitten John in all the movement, and was surprised at the positive reaction it elicited.  They continued kissing greedily as John’s hands grabbed and twisted the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.  Sherlock pulled John’s hands from his neck and smashed them against the wall above John’s head.  Their fingers intertwined and Sherlock fiercely massaged the backs of John’s hands against the wall as they kissed.  Then he leaned his weight against John, pounding John’s wrists against the wall a few times as he pounded John’s hips with his own.  John responded with rhythmic grunts which Sherlock was struggling to interpret when he heard a pounding from the other side of the wall.

A muffled voice yelled “Oi, keep it down over there!”

Sherlock let go of John’s wrists and they both slid to the floor, panting.

John swore, then said, “Well I’ve never done _that_ with a girl!”

Sherlock looked guilty.  “Too much?”

“Not at all,” and they both laughed hysterically.

 


	7. Harry

Days later, John, sat, stunned, on his bed.  Too numb to say goodbye, he had dropped his phone on the ground.  He put his head in his hands, staring unseeingly at the floor.  How long he stared, he didn’t know, but he suddenly found himself pacing the room.  Disjointed expletives and groans tore from inside his ice-cold chest.  As tears began to fall he sprang onto his bed and started beating the ceiling with his fists.  He heard several quick stomps almost immediately, then silence.  John had collapsed onto his bed, breath ragged, cheeks wet when Sherlock burst through the door. 

 

Sherlock ran to the bed. 

 

“What,” he said urgently with concern and a little fear.

 

“Harry.”  John said with despair.  “She’s been hit…her head…mum says she’s in surgery…I can’t!”

 

John was too distraught to say much, but Sherlock gathered that something had happened to his beloved twin. 

 

Sherlock knelt on the floor next to John’s bed and tentatively rubbed John’s back.  The friction seemed to release more emotion; Sherlock both heard and felt rasping sobs as his hand moved up and down John’s spine.  Then John lifted his own hand and reached to clutch Sherlock’s.  Without a second thought, Sherlock climbed onto the bed with John and lay behind him, moulding his body protectively around John.  Sherlock held John so tightly that John’s sobs wracked both their bodies.  Little by little, with some whimpering relapses, John grew quiet.  He turned over to face Sherlock, and Sherlock put his hand on John’s cheek.

 

“John, what happened?”

 

“Harry was crossing the street and got hit by a car.  My mum called.  Somehow, I don’t know, her head split open…”  and he shivered. 

 

Sherlock listened to John with horrified attention, then ventured, “But she’s alive?”

 

John began to hyperventilate.  “She’s in…surgery…right now.  Mum says…they won’t know…until they…get in there and…see the…damage.”  He choked on the last word.

 

“Let’s go,” said Sherlock firmly.  “Which hospital?”

 

“No!” John almost yelled.  Then quietly, “No.  No.  She’ll be…there…for a long time, and I’m too…I just want to stay for a few minutes.  Can you…?”

 

John looked at Sherlock’s eyes for the first time and Sherlock read pure pain.  He was flooded with overwhelming desire to crush those feelings and give John comfort.  Not knowing what to do, he simply drew John to his chest, tucking John’s head under his chin.  John buried his head under Sherlock’s arm.  He cried like a child.

 

Sherlock had never seen anyone cry like that.  John wept, raw and unrestrained. 

 

At times he would call, “Harry!” and then clutch at Sherlock convulsively. 

 

Convulsively.  Sherlock remembered, with apprehension, that he hadn’t taken his medicine yet.  He felt genuine fear, but for John.  Sherlock knew he needed his medicine to keep his mind clear so he could be present with John, but he was afraid to leave John to go get it. 

 

He waited for a lull in John’s sobs, then said gently, “I’m sorry John, I need to take my medicine.  I’m sorry, let me go upstairs for just a second,” and as John clutched Sherlock’s shirt, “I’ll come right back, right back, I promise” 

 

John pulled his own hands and knees into his chest, seeming to crumple inward.

 

Sherlock promised, “Just a second, I’ll come right back,” gently slid off the bed, then bounded to the door. 

 

He tore down the hall and up the stairs, grabbed the blue bottle from the cupboard and dashed back down to 421.  He shoved through the sticking door to find John in a ball, exactly as he had left him.  He couldn’t have been gone more than two minutes but as John looked at him, Sherlock saw pure, aching grief in his eyes.  Sherlock again knelt by the bed as he dry-swallowed his pills, then reached to stroke John’s hair and face.  After a few moments John’s eyes fell closed and Sherlock studied the puffy read face under his hand.  He felt a tiny bloom in his chest and considered it intently for some time.  A word that seemed to match the bloom came into his mind.  _Love?_

 

Finally, he whispered, “Are you asleep?”

 

John replied hoarsely, “No.”

 

Sherlock climbed up next to John again, saying his name soothingly several times.  They were lying on their sides, facing each other.  Hi kissed John’s forehead, unthinkingly, as one would kiss a child.  He was shocked when John squirmed up to brush his lips to Sherlock’s.

 

“No, John, sorry, I wasn’t trying to…do anything.”

 

But John looked at him pleadingly, and Sherlock realized that John wanted affection.  Sherlock wound his arms around John, twined their legs together, and held him protectively.  He touched his forehead to John’s, letting John know he was there if John wanted him. 

 

John wanted him.

 

John again moved and swept his lips across Sherlock’s.  Sherlock kissed back and their faces nuzzled together, noses and cheeks and foreheads sliding across the others’, lips caressing when their mouths were near.  Occasionally John’s breath would become ragged with tears, and Sherlock would withdraw and rest their foreheads together to give John space.  But John always came for more.  Sherlock moved his face softly and gently against John’s, their skin never breaking contact, as if he could absorb John’s sorrow if they touched long enough.  Sherlock felt John’s hand slide between his hip and the bed, and lift and push Sherlock onto hands and knees over him.  Sherlock felt very protective in this position, shielding John from the outside world.  He felt confusion, however, when John reached for his back and pulled him down, chest to his chest.  Surely sorrow and attraction were mutually exclusive emotions?  But John kissed him and Sherlock found himself rounding his back until their hips met.  John released a longing moan as they settled together.  As they continued to kiss, slowly and gently, their bodies began to rock together.  Unlike previous experiences that had been playful, aggressive and rough, this was heart-wrenching and gentle and profound.  Sherlock saw a tear slip from John’s eye and down across his temple to the bed.

 

John whispered, “Sherlock?” as they moved, as if grounding himself in Sherlock’s presence.

 

Sherlock answered with a steady and comforting, “John,” and then, gently, “What do you need?  Do you need…me…or do you need to stop?”

 

John didn’t answer, and they continued to rock together, slowly.  After a moment, Sherlock heard a text alert and John put his hands on Sherlock’s hips to still him.  Sherlock rolled off of John, reached for the phone, and handed it to John without looking at ut.  He watched as John read aloud,

 

_“We’re at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.  One of the surgeons came out and said they’re almost done.  I’m not supposed to use my phone.  It looks okay Johnny.”_

 

John looked at Sherlock, nervous and afraid to be hopeful. 

 

Sherlock stood and said, “Let’s go.”

 

 

 

 


	8. Acceptance

Sherlock held John’s hand as wound their way through the hospital until they arrived at the neurosurgery ward. John didn’t see his mum and sank down in a chair to wait for her. Sherlock sat in the chair next to John, as close as possible, and wrapped this arms around him. John slumped into Sherlock’s chest over the chairs' arms and focused on breathing. After a few minutes Sherlock saw a woman walking quickly toward them, and knew it was Mrs. Watson.  
She seemed to look right through Sherlock as she stooped to look at her son’s face and sighed, “Oh, Johnny. I’m glad you’re here. There’s nothing for it but to wait. The doctor said they should be done soon. She said Harry looks okay, Johnny. She looks okay.”  
And then smiled and wiped a tear from her exhausted face.  
John nodded and burrowed back into Sherlock as Mrs. Watson straightened up, and she seemed to notice Sherlock for the first time. She looked at his face, then at his arms embracing her son.  
“Um, I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he said, without letting go.  
She stared at the two of them for a long moment, a crease in her forehead. Her tired mind finally clicked into operation and she realized that Sherlock must be her son’s boyfriend. Boyfriend. She experienced just a moment of confusion before she put her arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.  
“Thank you for coming Sherlock.”  
\--  
A week later, Sherlock was back at Saint Bartholomew’s, visiting Harry. Much of her head was bandaged and she had a cast on her right leg. Her neurosurgeon had said that she had lost some motor function along her left side, but Harry was in therapy and learning how to compensate. Right now, she was resting in bed, chatting with Sherlock.  
“I didn’t know if they’d let flowers into your room, and flowers are stupid anyway, so I brought you these.”  
Sherlock put a bag of Harry’s favorite sweets on her bed table.  
“Ahh, lying in bed, watching telly, eating sweets, I could get used to this!” Harry joked, but she winced as she turned her head to look at Sherlock.  
“I just…thank you,” he mumbled.  
“What for?”  
“For telling John to go for it.” Then, “For me.”  
And Harry gave Sherlock a warm smile.


	9. Summer

“How’s the headache?” asked John

“Pretty good, but now I have to brush my hair,” Harry grimaced.

“Want help?”

“Sure.”

John took the brush from Harry’s hand.  He had never thought of brushing hair as a two-hand job, but since Harry’s accident, he realized how much he took for granted, or didn’t know, about her habits.  Harry’s hair was sandy blonde like John’s and it fell halfway to her waist.  Before the accident she had dyed it black but the un-dyed roots of her hair had started growing out in the five weeks since.  Before her surgery that day, a chunk of hair had been shaved off so the surgeons could operate, but Harry had found that if she pulled all her hair back into a ponytail, she could usually cover up the bald spot.  However, brushing and making ponytails required the use of two hands.  Harry had lost some feeling and motor function on her entire left side, including an intermittent numbness in her left hand.  Harry attended physical therapy four days a week but still had a long way to go, and John had been helping her.  As his twin, Harry was, almost literally, his other half, and he took it as a matter of course to care for her. 

John wasn’t taking classes over the summer and had moved back home to help Harry until fall semester began.  Besides escorting her to physical therapy appointments and helping her do her exercises at home, John helped Harry do all the “little things,” including brushing her hair.  He had learned how to be gentle whilst pulling the brush through her hair and stretching the elastic around it.

“Thanks Johnny.”

“ ’Course.  You ready?”

They climbed in the car to go to the day’s therapy appointment.  Harry’s right leg was out of the cast and she rarely used her wheelchair now.  Today she handed John her braces as she slowly eased into the passenger seat.  John closed her door and walked around to the driver’s side.  Although St. Bart’s was almost prohibitively far from the Watsons’ house, it was really the closest place that could provide the level of care that Harry needed, so on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays, John would drive her to her appointments and back.  Sometimes he’d stay with Harry and watch over her progress, sometimes he’d visit Sherlock. 

\--

Sherlock was still at Stamford Street Apartments.  He had chosen to stay on over the summer semester to take an intensive violin theory course.  He had never devoted so much time to school work.  In his Chemistry and Math courses, Sherlock only needed to glance at a textbook now and then in order to earn high marks.  Music came to him just as easily; to do well in those courses he hadn’t had to work or practice any more that he would have liked.  However, this intensive course actually challenged Sherlock, and he relished the work.  He was expected to both perform and compose for the course and he was exhilarated to be learning and performing so many pieces in so short a time.  Sherlock had never composed before, and he was pleasantly surprised to discover that he not only enjoyed it, but that it somehow allowed the background processes of his brain to untangle and relax.

The only breaks Sherlock took from his music were to spend time with John.  Sometimes John would leave Harry during appointments to meet Sherlock, but the appointments were only an hour long, and after that short, precious time alone together, Sherlock usually ended up going back to Bart’s and spending time with both John and Harry.  Other times Sherlock would join John in observing her sessions.  He liked the look of pride on John’s face when he could see Harry master an exercise, and he liked to listen to John talk about the sister he loved.  John and Harry’s extraordinary connection led Sherlock to consider his relationship with Mycroft.  Mycroft was a pompous ass but he was genuinely concerned about his little brother, and Sherlock knew it.  Thanks to John and Harry, Sherlock had been rolling his eyes a little less and answering a little more truthfully when Mycroft checked up on him.  Sherlock continued to faithfully keep his list of medications and the times he took them, and started to at least be aware of his eating and sleeping habits, even if he didn’t always give himself what he needed. 

\--

Because of Harry’s condition and John’s devotion, they spent more time together than they had in recent memory.  It somehow didn’t matter that they were on opposite ends of almost every spectrum; they encouraged and supported and loved each other unconditionally.  While John was driven and studious, Harry was carefree and rejoiced that she was no longer required by law to pursue education.  John made conscious efforts to be relaxed and friendly around his peers, while Harry indulged in sarcastic and almost rude interactions with almost everyone she met.  Except John.  She loved him fiercely and would do anything for him, as she knew he would do for her.

That's why she supported him in his relationship with Sherlock.  Although she never would have guessed it, she hardly batted an eye when John texted her about his Problem.  When she had called, he had reluctantly, then gushingly explained his situation with Sherlock.  She had encouraged John to go for it, to go for Sherlock.  True to her untroubled nature and love for her twin, she would support him in whatever made him happy.  Then Harry met Sherlock.  He first appeared at her bedside a few times with John when she was at hospital, then once he had come alone and given her sweets and thanks.  As she attended physical therapy over the summer, Sherlock would often come to observe her sessions with John.  Over time she understood that Sherlock was driven but not studious, alternately quiet and brusque among peers, and, like her, loved John.  Although she, John and Sherlock were “only” 19, Harry thought she could see hints of real love when the boys – men – interacted.  And she loved Sherlock for it.

 


	10. Friends

Sherlock put his hand on Harry’s knee.  At first on the kneecap, it slid it inward until Sherlock’s fingers were curled just under the back of her knee.  It hurt, but Harry knew it was supposed to.

 

“Ten,” he said.

 

“Ten!  I can’t –“ but Harry’s sentence was silently cut off by Sherlock’s commanding stare.

 

Slowly, sweating, Harry straightened her leg and held it extended for ten seconds.  Or an eternity, she couldn’t quite tell.  The weight tied to her ankle seemed to multiply each second by a thousand.

 

Then Sherlock yelled, almost joyfully, “Ten!  You did it!  That’s my girl!”

 

Harry and Sherlock were at Bart’s, doing some of her physical therapy exercises while they waited for John to meet them.  Now that fall semester was in session, Sherlock’s violin intensive was over and his and John’s regular classes had started.  John also worked a couple of hours a week at Bart’s lab.  Sherlock was bored with regular class work and because John’s free time was limited, Sherlock was happy to step in and help Harry.  He owned a car and willingly drove Harry between the Watsons’ home and her appointments at Bart’s.  He often observed her physical therapy sessions and was surprisingly adept at helping her practice her exercises.  As Sherlock saw it, helping Harry was helping John, and befriending Harry was a critical component to a successful relationship with John.  Although they never really discussed it, Sherlock and Harry bonded over their mutual love for John.  And it didn’t hurt that Harry and Sherlock shared some decidedly non-John-like personality traits which provided additional common ground.  John had watched their friendship grow and appreciated everything that Sherlock did for Harry.  The two people he loved best loved each other.    

 

As John rounded the corner he heard Sherlock’s shouts and saw Harry beaming.  John had become increasingly aware that, while Sherlock’s affectionate self belonged only to John, Sherlock’s most boisterous self belonged to Harry.  This was demonstrated in Sherlock’s reaction to Harry’s exercise versus his subdued greeting for John.  When John approached, Sherlock remained seated with his hand at Harry’s knee, uttered one of his simple “Hi”s, and reached for John’s hand. 

 

“Harry just held five pounds, with her leg fully extended, for ten seconds.”

 

“Brilliant!” John said enthusiastically.

 

“And check out my walk!” gloated Harry.

 

The boys helped her up and she stood between them without help.  Then she took several slow deliberate steps away from them, turned, and carefully shuffled back.  They helped her back down onto the bench.

 

Harry, breathing hard, explained, “I could have done better, but I just finished an hour of exercising with Mister Slave-Driver Holmes and I’m exhausted.  Let’s go home.”

 

John and Sherlock helped Harry through St. Barts’ labyrinthine halls to Sherlock’s car and he drove them to the Watson’s house.  Mrs. Watson met them on the drive to help Harry into the house.

 

“Thanks boys!” she called.

 

Harry yelled, “Thanks Sherlock!  Love you Johnny!”

 

\--

 

To be blunt, Sherlock was rich.  John considered the Holmes’ wealth as they returned to London in Sherlock’s car.  John hadn’t known it at first, and didn’t think of it often, but had slowly realized that Sherlock didn’t have the budget of an average uni student.  Sherlock owned and did things that were not flashy but, when added together, demonstrated his affluence.  His car was newer and well-equipped, his clothes were nicer and often replaced and he always had plenty of pocket-money.  John and Mike shared a humble student flat on Compton Road in Islington, but Sherlock lived alone in a relatively posh student flat on Briset Street, just a few blocks from Bart’s.  Sherlock’s close proximity to the hospital was another argument for his assistance to Harry.

 

Noticing John’s detached gaze, Sherlock said, “Where should we go?”

 

John returned to the present and said, “I have some studying to do, but we could go to Briset Street for a while, if you want.”

 

Sherlock’s flat was messy but private and was a good place for him and John to be alone.  John and Mike’s flat was well-kept and somewhat of a social gathering place, especially for Kate and Harry.  A suggestion by Sherlock or John to spend time at Sherlock’s flat was often a euphemism for more intimate activities.  Sherlock found a parking space and the two were soon in his flat.  John fell onto Sherlock’s bed and closed his eyes.

 

“Why am I so tired?” he asked.

 

“Because you do so much.”

 

Sherlock pointed out the obvious as he lay down next to John.  “You study constantly, you work at the lab, you spend time with Harry, and you worry about Harry.”

 

“Right, but you have double the coursework and you spend as much, if not more, time with Harry than I do, and you seem just fine.”

 

“We’ve already established that I’m abnormal,” said Sherlock seriously.  “I don’t need nearly as much sleep as you do, and I don’t need to study nearly as much.”

 

It wasn’t an insult, just a fact, and John wasn’t offended.  He rolled to his side and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

 

As he reached for John’s hand, Sherlock felt a fleeting, transcendent happiness.  His hand jerked and bumped into John’s, and John held it as hummed a happy sigh.

 

\--

 

A few days later John, Harry, Sherlock, Mike and Kate were at John and Mike’s flat on Compton Road, sitting around a tiny coffee table piled with pizza boxes.  John and Mike were grabbing slices of pizza, Sherlock was tabulating _…five for John, four for Mike…_ and Harry and Kate were examining Harry’s ankle.  Harry visited the flat regularly and had of course met Kate in short order.  Mike and John were delighted that girls got along and were fast becoming friends.  Kate sympathized with Harry’s physical difficulties and Harry seemed to provide a bit of excitement and edge for Kate, far from the normally staid studiousness of her boyfriend and his flatmate.   Kate pointed to a spot on her own ankle, Harry poked it, and they both laughed.  Sherlock smiled at the sight and reached to hold John’s pizza-less hand.  Harry’s smile was almost exactly like John’s.


	11. Nothing

Sherlock and Harry sat on the ground across from each other.  Harry was tentatively rubbing her leg when suddenly Sherlock wrapped his hands around her thigh, digging his fingers into her bare skin. 

 

“Sherlock!” she gasped, falling toward him and grasping his shoulders.

 

“Oh shut it Harry, it’s for your own good.”

 

He began kneading the muscles of her upper leg and she gripped him, hard.  Harry’s physical therapist had introduced a new massage technique that Harry could do on herself, but Sherlock knew that Harry didn’t do it hard enough to be effective. Finally sick of her fear of pain, he grabbed her leg and massaged it himself.  Wincing, Harry tried to distract herself by thinking of how phrases such as “idiot” and “shut it” were somehow not insulting when they came from Sherlock’s mouth. 

 

Sherlock was so different from Johnny, Harry mused.  How had they found each other among the thousands of other students at King’s?  What had sparked an interest between them?  Harry knew that Mike had introduced them, but she was surprised that it had developed beyond an acquaintance.  Like her, Sherlock had some decidedly antisocial traits; he probably hadn’t been easy to get close to.  Yet, he seemed perfect for Johnny.  Maybe because Sherlock was enough like herself, maybe because Sherlock was enough unlike Johnny, Johnny had chosen him, and she approved.

 

She heard footsteps and looked up from Sherlock’s hands to see Johnny approaching.  She smiled with relief.

 

“Johnny, make him stop, he’s torturing me!” she only half-joked.

 

Sherlock stopped of his own accord and she pushed down on his shoulders to steady herself as she rose to her feet. 

 

“You know it’s for your own good, Harry,” chided John, and she rolled her eyes.

 

“It’s a conspiracy, they’re in it together!” she said dramatically to the ceiling.

 

Then she looked back to Johnny as he said, “Sorry guys, I just left the lab for a second to tell you that I have to stay late –“

 

“—for an experiment!” Harry chimed in, mockingly.

 

“Well, it is!” said Johnny, defensively.

 

“I know,” Harry said, “it’s okay.”

 

He relaxed as Sherlock gently took his hand.

 

“Harry and I will to Compton Road, I’m sure Mike’s there.  He can entertain us till you come home.”

 

\--

 

 

Hours later, John returned to the flat to find Mike, Kate, Sherlock and Harry gathered cozily in front of the telly.  John’s brow furrowed as he took in the sight.  Sherlock sprang up as soon as he saw John, with a desperate look of pleading. 

 

“John, let’s get out of here, I can’t watch this anymore!”

 

Sherlock and John took Harry home to the Watsons’ house, then went to Briset Street.  Sherlock was surprised when, as they entered the flat, John wasted no time in slamming his own back against the door, pulling Sherlock in tight.  John aggressively kissed and nipped Sherlock’s neck and lips until Sherlock mirrored his actions. John raised his own hands above his head, against the door, initiating one of his favorite aggressive positions.  Sherlock knew what he wanted and obeyed, gripping John’s wrists and pinning him against the door.  Within seconds Sherlock was grinding his hips against John’s, thrusting John’s body and hands into the door.  John’s wrists fought free of Sherlock’s hands and John pushed Sherlock forcefully, causing Sherlock to stumble backward.  John stepped forward purposefully, caught a fistful of Sherlock’s shirt before he fell, and yanked Sherlock’s chest to his. One hand clutching Sherlock’s shirt, John’s other hand grabbed a fistful of hair.  He used it to pull Sherlock’s mouth back to his and they kissed, almost combatively, until both were sweating and panting.  Sherlock hadn’t seen John so aggressive in a long time.  Finally, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, stilling him.  Sherlock gradually gentled the kiss until John’s breathing became more regular. 

 

Sherlock took a step back and said, “What’s wrong?”

 

John sighed heavily and drove the top of his head into Sherlock’s chest.  John’s arms reached around Sherlock’s waist.

 

“Nothing.”

 

\--

 

As the semester continued, John found that more of his time was spent at the library and the lab, and less with Harry and Sherlock.  Harry still came to London for physical therapy twice a week and would stay in town until she got to see John.  Occasionally John wouldn’t get back to Compton Road until late, and often found Mike, Kate, Harry and Sherlock piled on the couch watching telly.    Sometimes Sherlock would be massaging Harry’s legs, Harry digging her fingernails into his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut.  Other times, John received a texts informing him that the four of them had gone out to dinner or a movie.  John, (justifiably, he told himself) became jealous of Harry’s time with Sherlock.  He was also jealous of Sherlock’s touch on her skin.  Sherlock seemed to touch Harry more than he did John, and an upper leg massage suggested a certain level of intimacy to John’s mind.

 

John decided to spend the next weekend at home with Harry and his mum.  He was unusually quiet as Sherlock drove him and Harry to the Watsons’ house, and didn’t touch Sherlock as said goodbye.  He simply turned away and followed Harry as she limped into the house.  He followed her to her room.  As soon as he had made it through her door, Harry wasted no time in closing it and turning to face John. 

 

Her arms folded, she demanded, “What’s wrong.”

 

John stared back, his confused mind growing hot.  Suddenly a mess of previously unidentified thoughts and emotions caught fire, and he exploded.

 

“Harry, damn it…Sherlock…you and Sherlock.”

 

All expression on Harry’s face was burned off by the flames of anger and jealousy coming from John.

 

“You can’t be serious Johnny.”

 

John replied in a high, saccharine voice, “Oh, Sherlock, my leg hurts.  Will you massage me?  Let me take of my trousers.  Oh, Sherlock, Johnny’s got to work late at the lab again, let’s watch a movie and cuddle.  Oh, Sherlock, Mike and Kate are going out, lets join them.  It can be a bloody DOUBLE DATE!”

 

Harry stood, silent, expressionless for several long seconds.  Then she put her palms to her forehead and dragged them down to her neck, ending with them steepled under her chin.  She looked upward, as if praying for patience.

 

“You can’t be serious Johnny,” she repeated.

 

Johnny took a step forward, hands in fists at his sides.  Then he put his own hands to his face.  Harry watched his posture break and heard him take a halting breath. 

 

“Oh Johnny, of course I like Sherlock.  How could I not like someone who makes my brother so happy,” then slowly and clearly, “Who worships my brother.”

 

She closed the distance between herself and her twin and hugged him. 

 

“Of course I like him.  He gets the stupidest smile when he talks about you, which is practically all the time.  You know why he makes me exercise like a drill sergeant, why he mercilessly rubs my leg?  He’s trying to help me get stronger, quicker, so I’ll need less therapy and he can spend more time with you.”

 

John’s head had dropped to her shoulder and now he took a deep breath and looked into her eyes.  Hopeful, but with incredulity.

 

“Damn it Johnny, I’m the wrong BLOODY GENDER!” she shouted impatiently. 

 

Then more quietly, “And I’m not you.  He likes you, Johnny.  I think he loves you.”

 

She watched tears gather in her brother’s eyes and hugged him tight again.  He hugged her back, fiercely. 

 

“Idiot,” she said into his shoulder, and he let out a sobbing laugh.


	12. Every Part of You

Sherlock came to the Watson’s house Sunday evening to take John back to London.  They exchanged light “Hey”s before Mrs. Watson offered Sherlock a biscuit and Harry came to the kitchen to say hi.  Soon John and Sherlock were in the car headed toward London. 

 

Sherlock glanced at John and said a low and gentle “Hi.”

 

John ducked his head and responded with a soft “Hi.”

 

Sherlock tentatively put his hand on John’s knee.  John put his palm on Sherlock’s and helped it slide inward to curl around the back of his knee.  They rode in silence for a while before Sherlock initiated a slow, quiet conversation.  He echoed Harry.

 

“What’s wrong,” quietly and carefully.

 

“Harry says I’m an idiot,” John almost whispered.

 

“Why.”

 

“You…her…I thought…I was jealous,” John confessed, with both contrition and accusation.

 

The car veered to the side of the road and came to a quick halt.  Sherlock looked at John searchingly.

 

“No,” said Sherlock simply, somehow calming the last of John’s fears with one word.

 

He removed his hand from John’s knee and put it behind John’s neck.  For the second time that weekend, tears flooded from John’s eyes, and through his hazy vision, he was surprised to see Sherlock’s eyes red and brimming.  Sherlock pulled John toward him, leaning across the car until their foreheads met. 

 

“Harry is part of you, you’ve told me several times.  I want to know every part of you,” a pause. “I love you.”

 

Sherlock slid his hand from the back of John’s neck to wipe the tears from John’s face, then gently traced John’s bottom lip with his thumb.

 

John replied, “I…I love…you?” questioning.  Then he put his palm on the back of Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock traced his lip again.

 

John smiled and repeated with more confidence, “I love you.”

 

They looked at each other, exposed, nervous, and joyful.

 

After a moment Sherlock’s hand twitched on John’s cheek and the moment ended.  John pulled away.

 

“Should you be driving?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “They haven’t taken my license.”

 

John gave him an exasperated look and grimaced.

 

“Why don’t I drive.”

 

\--

 

John drove to Briset Street.  He left his red duffel in the boot and held Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock led him into the flat.  Sherlock unlocked the door and flipped on the light, but after they entered and closed the door, John turned the light off.  He stepped close to Sherlock, almost chest to chest. 

 

John’s eyes found Sherlock’s in the darkness and John whispered, “I love you.”

 

Sherlock gazed back and whispered, “I love you, John Watson.”

 

Sherlock took John’s head in his hands and tipped it side to side, kissing both of his cheeks, both sides of his jaw, both temples.  John slowly moved his face to kiss Sherlock’s palm, then cradled Sherlock’s hand in both of his own as he kissed each of Sherlock’s fingers.  His mouth went back to Sherlock’s middle finger, the longest.  John kissed the tip and down each of the knuckles.  He touched his tongue to the underside of each knuckle, then curled his tongue around Sherlock’s finger.  John heard a breath, almost a gasp, as he put Sherlock’s finger all the way into his mouth and gave a quick, hard suck.

 

Sherlock’s breath stuttered as he watched John’s mouth at his hand.  The darkness hindered his vision but heightened his sensation, and every lick, kiss, and suck seemed to reach his core.  He dragged his fingertip along John’s tongue, deep to shallow.  As Sherlock’s finger emerged from John’s mouth, the tip of John’s tongue reached to give it one last lick.      

 

Sherlock wanted a turn, or perhaps wanted John to have a turn.  Sherlock took John’s finger into his mouth and circled his tongue around it.  His tongue moved back and forth, just a little, massaging the under-side of John’s finger.  John’s finger flexed, relaxed, quickly withdrew, then shoved back in.  Sherlock let out a little hum and closed his eyes as he caressed John’s finger inside his mouth.  Sherlock stooped as John withdrew his finger and their mouths met.  They kissed differently than they ever had before, each tongue licking and playing with the other.  They playfully vied for dominance until John withdrew, chuckling.  His hands were at Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock’s hands were at John’s waist.  John dropped his hands to Sherlock’s wrists and gently moved Sherlock’s hands down along the front of his, John’s, trousers.  Sherlock was pleased by what he felt and moved his fingertips over the bulge for a moment, hearing John sigh.  Then he gently took John’s hands and placed them at the front of his, Sherlock’s, trousers.  John gave a gentle stroke and felt a pulse under his fingers. 

 

“Okay?” he murmured to Sherlock

 

“Yes.”

 

Then Sherlock said again, deliberately, “Yes.”

 

They held hands as they walked to Sherlock’s bed.  Sherlock sat down on the edge ans John stood right in front of him as they both took off their shirt.  Sherlock carefully undid John’s trousers and pushed them and his pants to the floor.  Then he stood and John helped him remove his own.  They were naked.  They stood, almost chest to chest in the darkness.

 

John murmured, “Hi”

 

Sherlock answered, “Hi”

 

John took Sherlock’s hand and guided it between his legs until he felt Sherlock’s warm hand around his testicles.  Sherlock released a humming sigh as John’s hand moved away to reach between Sherlock’s legs.  Each moved his hand on the other’s body, gently exploring and stroking the skin.  Each pulsed and writhed, and somehow John and Sherlock’s hands found their way up along each other’s length.  They continued to explore, and as Sherlock’s knees grew week, he dropped onto the bed.  It only took him a moment to slide off the bed and kneel in front of John.  This would be much better than a finger.


	13. Thanks

It was much better than a finger.  Much, much larger, softer, smoother, and with an indescribable taste.  Sherlock heard John moan as he worked his tongue around John’s circumference.  John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and started moving his hips incrementally back and forth, in and out.  Sherlock was breathing deeply through his nose, taking in as much of John’s scent that he could, when John hastily stepped back.

 

John almost whimpered as he breathed heavily, collecting himself. 

 

“I didn’t know if you’d want me to come into your mouth.”

 

Sherlock panted whilst he considered.

 

“I don’t know either,” he said, then stood.

 

Almost comically fast, John launched himself at Sherlock and they kissed deeply.  John noticed a new taste in Sherlock’s mouth, and realized it must be his, John’s, flavor.  He wanted to taste Sherlock.

 

John guided Sherlock back to lay on the bed, then climbed on and crouched beside him.  He took as much of Sherlock as he could into his mouth and caressed him with his tongue.  Sherlock tasted similar but beautifully distinct from himself.  It was extremely arousing.  He found himself pumping his neck, allowing Sherlock to slide in and out of his mouth, when he was roughly pulled to Sherlock’s chest.  His mouth found Sherlock’s and as they kissed, he could sense Sherlock comprehending the new taste in his mouth.  Not stopping, John reached down to massage Sherlock, and Sherlock followed suit.  They kissed ravenously, hands plying each other’s bodies.  Gradually, their concentration shifted from their mouths to their hands.  Their lips stilled and they panted into each other’s mouths as they massaged each other, hard.  They became frantic as they gave each other pleasure, moaning and sweating and moving together.  Then Sherlock came.  He almost shouted as all his muscles tensed, and his hand stopped on John for a moment.  John was desperate, he wanted to join Sherlock, he needed Sherlock to keep going.  Almost as if Sherlock heard his thoughts, he gathered enough wit to work his hands on John, bringing him almost immediately.  John whimpered as he pulsed into Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock opened his eyes to see John’s clenched in ecstasy. 

 

John’s head fell onto Sherlock’s chest and they lay silent, recovering.  After a time Sherlock’s hand came to rest on John’s back and John propped himself up to look at Sherlock’s eyes. 

 

They smiled at each other before Sherlock said, “John, um, have you ever…?”

 

John’s smile widened.  “No.”

 

“With either, um, anyone…?”

 

Still smiling, John repeated, “No.”

 

After looking at Sherlock’s bashfully proud face, he continued, “I’ve never even have anyone touch me, with my pants off, I mean.”

 

Then John asked, “You?”

 

“No, it’s never been my thing.  You know that.”

 

John joked, “Can I be your thing now?”

 

Sherlock replied seriously, “You are not a thing, but I’d like you to be mine.  John, I really do.  Love you.  I love you.”

 

“I love you.”

 

\--

 

Late the next morning, Harry got a text,

 

_Sorry I’m an idiot.  Thanks._

then

_Sherlock says thanks too._

 

She knew Johnny too well.  She replied with only two characters,

 

_??_

 

and received

 

_yep_

 

 


	14. Advice

Fall semester went quickly and winter break soon arrived.  John and Mike only had one class in common, but still often studied at the same time at their table in the library.  John and Sherlock continued to explore their relationship and each other’s bodies.  Harry was down to once-weekly physical therapy sessions, and John was able to manage the reduced time commitment more easily.  She was walking very well, almost never using her braces, only needing help getting in and out of cars and up and down stairs.  Although she tired very easily, her strength and stability were greatly improved.  Even the numbness in her left hand was lessening; she could brush her hair and make a ponytail by herself.

 

She was doing just that as she and John waited at St. Bart’s for the day’s physical therapy appointment.  Harry was chatting away but John was only half-present, only offering distracted “yeahs” and “rights” at appropriate pauses.  He radiated awkwardness as he watched Harry’s appointment with un-seeing eyes and fiddling fingers.  As usual, he took Harry back to Compton Road after the appointment.  The flat was empty and John wandered toward his bedroom and jerked his head, meaning for Harry to follow him.  She entered and sat on his bed.  John closed the door and remained standing several paces away from Harry.  He ducked his head and knit his brow. 

 

“Harry?”

 

She replied impatiently, “Out with it Johnny, you’ve been distracted all morning.”  Then, more seriously, “What’s up?”

 

John’s eyes met hers and he and said matter-of-factly, “You’ve had sex.”

 

Harry replied openly, “Yeah, that can’t be a surprise.”

 

John answered, “No,” then turned bright red as he said, “but….”

 

“You haven’t.”

 

“No.”

 

“That’s great Johnny, that’s fine.  I’m just surprised you and Sherlock haven’t gotten around to that yet, after that text.”  Then mischievously, “Do you need me to go over the birds and the bees with you?”

 

Still crimson, John grinned bashfully, then broke eye contact.  “No.  But what if, um, if it’s…”

 

“Oh…two bees,” Harry finished, comprehending. 

 

“Right,” said John, glad that she understood.  “We want to…” he grew quiet.

 

“But?”

 

“I’m not sure what to do.”

 

John walked toward Harry and plopped down beside her on the bed.  Harry could see her brother’s innocent struggling and wanted to do something to help him relax.  She considered making another joke but she knew this was delicate and momentous for John and she didn’t want to make light of his fears.  

 

“What have you guys done, anything?”

 

“Everything, I think, except that.  But…”  John trailed off again.

 

“But…?”

 

Suddenly John’s fears and insecurities and confusion and longing came rushing out in a torrent of blurred words.

 

“He’s beautiful Harry, you should see him – okay, well, you shouldn’t see him, but he’s great Harry, he’s like me but different and great and I want him so much but I’m not sure what to do.  It seems pretty obvious but I don’t want to hurt him and I don’t want to get hurt and I don’t know how it fits, it seems too small and it seems like it would hurt.” 

 

He paused to catch his breath.

 

“I don’t know if we need condoms or not and I don’t know how it’ll feel and I want to make sure he enjoys it and damn I want to enjoy it and I want it so bad and I know he does too and I guess I’m just afraid and…and…”

 

Harry gave him a happy smile, not at all mocking or disbelieving as he finished.

 

“…and I love him.”

 

“Oh Johnny.  It’s obvious that he loves you too.  Don’t be scared!”

 

Harry wrapped her arm around John’s back and he slumped over to rest his head on her shoulder.  He laughed once, sheepishly, and spoke again.

 

“Okay.  Well, Harry, you’re a girl.  Woman.”

 

“Well spotted Bro!” and she could sense John making a sarcastic face on her shoulder.

 

John steeled himself.  He wanted to be a doctor, he shouldn’t be afraid to use adult words to address adult ideas with his adult sister! 

 

He took a deep breath and completely failed to sound nonchalant as he said, “I assume you’ve had vaginal sex.  Have you had anal sex?”

 

John was relieved when Harry replied thoughtfully, “No, I can’t help you there.  But, Johnny, you’re a boy.  Man,” she said, becoming teasing.

 

“Oh, well spotted, Sis!” he joked back.

 

They giggled but Harry was sincere when she said, “Just think about what you like, what you want.  Think about what you think you might like.  He probably wants the same things.” 

 

Harry paused to consider, then, matter-of-factly, “You’ll probably need lots of lubricant.  And I don’t know about condoms, so you might as well get those too.  It’s not like you’re going to get each other pregnant, but, you know, why not.”

 

John’s head was bumped off Harry’s shoulder as she raised them and threw out her hands in an exaggerated impersonation of comic confusion.  He burst into almost maniacal laughter as his inner tension broke.  Harry put on an air of impatience. 

 

“Are we about done here Johnny?  Don’t tell me you need me to go to the druggist’s with you.  My leg hurts and I just want to watch crap telly until Kate drops in.”

 

She smiled and John knew she wasn’t annoyed.  He stood and helped her up.  He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out, so Harry just gave him a quick hug.  She smiled at him.

 

“Damn, Johnny, you know I’d only have that conversation with you.  Anyone else would have gotten hit or laughed at.”

 

“Love you too, Sis,” replied John, with all the sarcasm he could muster. 

 

Harry gave him one more twin-sisterly smile before she walked out of his room.  As she picked up the telly remote she said, playfully, “Let me know how it goes.”

 

\--

 

John and Sherlock said goodbye for the winter holidays to celebrate Christmas with their families.  John had a short three weeks studying for finals and Sherlock had a long three weeks thinking about John.  About a week into the break John received some surprising mail.  He pulled a thick, gold-embossed card out of double envelopes.  Inside, the card read,

 

_John Watson,_

_Sherlock is completely unable to engage in conversation that does not revolve around yourself.  He spends a great deal of time playing, and I fear composing, on his violin.  He is quieter – that is to say, makes fewer rude comments – than usual.  He eats more heartily than I have recently seen and sleeps somewhat regularly.  He is exceptionally diligent in taking and recording his medications and I have only noticed one aura in the past week._

_Mother and Father don’t know to what they should attribute these improvements, but I believe I do.  I thank you again for your involvement with my brother, however profound it may or may not be._

_With Sincerest Regards,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

John’s only previous interaction with Sherlock’s brother had been the short phone call he’d received a year ago.  Then, John had understood but was flabbergasted by Mycroft’s formal speech.  Now, John read between the flowery lines and determined that Mycroft was genuinely thankful to John, and that he approved of John and Sherlock’s relationship.  John shook his head and smirked.  He took a picture of the writing with his phone before he tossed the card into the bin.  He sent the picture to Sherlock with the word,

 

_Seriously?_

 

Sherlock texted back,

 

_Typical Mycroft.  Translation, he knows we’re together and he likes you. – SH_

 

Then,

 

_I’m sure my mum and dad have figured it out, but I’ll make sure before I leave.  I suspect they’ll be ecstatic and want to meet you.  Maybe Harry too.  Ghastly, doting smiles and all that.  – SH_

 

John replied,

 

_See you in 13 days._

then received,

 

_And 4 hours. – SH_


	15. Never Again

Thirteen days and four hours later, John buzzed Sherlock’s flat from the vestibule at Briset Street. When he heard the answering buzz he entered and made his way to Sherlock’s flat, finding the door open and Sherlock standing on the threshold.

Sherlock held out his hand, said a quiet “Hi,” and led John inside.

Closing the door, Sherlock reached toward John and put both of his hands behind John’s neck, cradling the back of his head. He looked at John’s beaming face and smiled back.

John replied, “Hi,” and Sherlock gently pulled John toward him until they kissed.

After a few moments John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s chin and lamented, “Three weeks is a long time.”

Sherlock agreed, saying “But I don’t think our families would have been too chuffed if we spent the holidays visiting each other.”

He had barely finished the last word when John pulled him down for another gentle kiss. It intensified, but didn’t roughen, as it continued. John stopped for just a moment as he turned to glance and locate the couch behind him, then shuffled backward, pulling Sherlock, mouths still working together. John sat on the couch, dragging Sherlock down with him. Sherlock straddled John but had to bend and slump awkwardly to continue the kiss. John gently pushed Sherlock’s chest and, understanding, Sherlock rolled off, sat next to John, and John mounted Sherlock. John only had to round his back a bit to bring his lips to Sherlock’s. John quickly but gently wrapped his hands around the back of Sherlock’s neck and guided its motion as he kissed every part of Sherlock’s face. As he did so, Sherlock released a few low sighs and drew John closer.

“I missed you,” he whispered as John kissed along his cheekbone.

“Hmmm,” John agreed.

Sherlock pushed John’s hips to the side until John was no longer on his lap, then pushed John’s shoulder until John was lying on the couch. He knelt above John as they kissed. It seemed like their faces never broke contact; it seemed like one endless kiss that lasted from the time the door had closed until now. John reached to stroke the front of Sherlock’s trousers and whimpered ever so slightly as he heard another low sigh. John realized that his own eyes were closed and he opened them to gaze at Sherlock. Sherlock stared intensely back, then said one word.

A very quiet and gentle “Yeah?”

John smiled crookedly and answered confidently, “Yeah.”

Sherlock climbed off of John and pulled him up by the hand. John playfully shoved Sherlock’s hip to make him turn and move toward the bedroom. Sherlock didn’t make it very far before he felt John’s hands at his hips, yanking him back into John’s hips. John gave a powerful thrust and let go of Sherlock, propelling him forward. Sherlock spun to walk backward and give John a pretend exasperated look, but couldn’t hide his smile. Then John purposefully crashed into him and shoved Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock tripped and sat heavily on the bed, yanking John with him until they were laying side to side, twining their legs together, wrapping their arms around each other and kissing roughly. John moved away a little to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, licking Sherlock’s collarbone as he finished. Sherlock grabbed the back of John’s shirt and pulled it forward over John’s head, and John helped him finish the job by half-sitting as it slid up and off. Sherlock squirmed down until his mouth could reach John’s naval, and he circled his tongue around it as John tried to pull Sherlock’s shirt down and off.

As John struggled he complained, to the shirt, “oh come on”

Sherlock corrected, “off” as he sat up and shed it impatiently.

As soon as Sherlock’s hands were free he shoved John off the bed until John stood right in front of him. Sherlock’s hands quickly worked to undo and shove John’s trousers and pants down. Before he could do anything else John had knelt in front of Sherlock and was plying Sherlock’s trousers. Successfully opening them, he ripped them down and off, hearing Sherlock’s low and pleased laugh. The laugh petered off into a sigh as John plunged to Sherlock’s groin and took as much of Sherlock as he could into his mouth. Sherlock groped at John’s short hair as John worked his length. John stopped before Sherlock was too close to coming and flashed predatory eyes and his crooked smile at Sherlock as he crawled up onto the bed and threw the blanket aside. They lay on their sides facing each other for just a moment before John squirmed down and propped up one of Sherlock’s legs. Supporting himself with one hand, he used the other to grab, massage and roughly handle Sherlock, but suddenly grew gentle and quiet as he slipped a finger further back. He tentatively circled the outside of Sherlock’s opening with his index finger, then inserted it just a few millimeters deep. Seeing Sherlock pulse, he rapidly inserted his finger, withdrew it, inserted, withdrew, again and again as Sherlock made questioning but affirming sounds.

With immense willpower, Sherlock reached to still John’s hand. He didn’t want John to stop, but he needed some lubrication. He lunged toward his night table, finding the tube he wanted. John smiled and took it from Sherlock’s hand, squeezing a dollop into his palm and curling his fingers in it to moisten them.

Sherlock groaned, “Damn John, just your fingers in jelly is turning me on.”

Sherlock reclined to resume his previous position. John settled himself at Sherlock’s hip and began plying him again. Slowly, gently, he worked his finger into Sherlock, Sherlock reaching down to clutch John’s shoulders. John penetrated, first shallow, then deep, with one finger, then introduced another. Sherlock gasped and dug his fingers into John’s shoulders, but grunted a happy “yeah” as John worked. John found that, once past Sherlock’s opening, there was a surprising amount of room in which to explore and he circled his fingers inside.  

They brushed past a lump and Sherlock cried, “John!”

Unsure, John immediately moved his fingers but Sherlock whined, “No!” then “Yes!” as John found and gently pushed on the bump.

John wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but Sherlock obviously liked it, so he kept going for a bit. As Sherlock began to jerkily move his hips, John suddenly felt like he was wasting time using his hands. Sherlock growled in frustration as John completely withdrew his fingers, wiped them on the sheets and grabbed the tube of lubricant again. Sherlock huffed impatiently as John made preparations.

Unsure, John straddled Sherlock’s ankles and put his hand under Sherlock’s hip, lifting and turning Sherlock over until Sherlock was on hands and knees in front of him. Still unsure, John gently put two fingers into Sherlock, then pulled down as if to widen the entry.

Sherlock almost yelled, “Damn it John, come on!” and with no more ceremony, John moved his hand and shoved in hard and fast.

Sherlock yelled, again, “John!” and John was afraid he’d hurt him, but Sherlock inched forward, then slammed back onto John, taking him deep inside.

That was all it took. John whimpered and arched his back as he came, his head falling back, his fingers scratching down Sherlock’s back. His body, his mind and his heart throbbed as he ejaculated.

“Oohh,” he uttered as he withdrew. He crumpled forward until his chest was on the small of Sherlock’s back, reaching around him until he found Sherlock’s penis. Half-conscious, John worked his hands, he didn’t know how long, until Sherlock came. Then Sherlock grew weak and his torso fell down onto the bed. John’s head was on the small of his back, his chest over the firm curve of Sherlock’s buttocks, his hands around and trapped under Sherlock’s hips. They lay together, panting, and John flicked his tongue to graze Sherlock’s back and taste his sweat.

John jerked into full alertness, however, when he heard Sherlock’s hand thump on the bed, and quickly pulled up in time to see it flop over. Sherlock lay still, not breathing, eyes open and glassy. Suddenly his shoulders started convulsing, becoming so severe that Sherlock’s head was flopping up and down on the bed. John recoiled, not from disgust, but because he knew it was unsafe to try to restrain Sherlock. Sherlock had once explained to John that if he ever had a full-blown tonic-clonic seizure, he should be left alone unless he was in immediate danger. John was terrified but a part of his brain was still able to reason. There was nothing nearby on which Sherlock might hit his head or limbs. He was in the middle of the double bed and therefore unlikely to fall off. John sprang off the bed, backed up a few paces, and fell to his knees. He watched Sherlock’s lips turn blue and eyes roll back and mentally castigated himself. If this was the result, he would never, ever, have sex with Sherlock again. He ached as he realized the joy that Sherlock had just given to him and the harm he had just caused to Sherlock. John realized, more forcefully than ever before, that he loved Sherlock. Tears of regret came to his eyes as he watched the man he loved flail and writhe. After what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock’s seizure stopped as abruptly as it had started. John stared at him, willing him to breathe, until, finally, Sherlock gasped loudly, his starving lungs filling with air. As Sherlock’s back heaved up and down with his breathing, John crawled up next to him, rolled him to his side, and curled his body around Sherlock’s.

After a moment Sherlock began mumbling “John,” over and over, and John replied, “I’m here,” each time.

Finally, Sherlock became fully conscious and John carefully climbed over him so they could be face to face.

“John,” said Sherlock once more, fully aware, before smiling weakly and closing his eyes.

“I’m here,” said John once more, before touching his forehead to Sherlock’s.


	16. It's Fine

Sherlock slept.  Although Sherlock was right there in his arms, John had confusing feelings of distance and want.  He saw Sherlock’s brow furrow as he breathed shallowly in his sleep and felt longing and self-recrimination.  After some time he was relieved to notice that Sherlock’s face had become peaceful and his breathing slow and even.  John sat to pull the blanket over them both then realized that everything was sticky.  Moist and sticky.  Even amidst all his other emotions, John laughed quietly to himself.  They’d have to figure out how to contain the mess next time.  Then his face fell.  There won’t be another time, John thought.  He mourned as he looked down at Sherlock.  A few tears slid down John’s cheeks before he roused himself.  He needed to stop wallowing and help Sherlock.  The bathroom was almost in sight of the bed; John decided he could slip away but dash right back if Sherlock needed him. 

 

John found several hand cloths and wet them under hot water.  He took them, pleasantly warm, back to the bed and cleaned his own body, arms and hands.  Then he gently cleaned Sherlock’s torso and legs as best he could without waking him.  He found a way to arrange the bedding to expose clean sheets, then lay down next to Sherlock and threw the blanket over them both.  John held Sherlock, alternately drowsing and reflecting, until he felt Sherlock clutch his hand.  Sherlock spoke.

 

“What happened?”  Then, collecting scraps of memories, “We had sex, didn’t we!”

 

John inwardly groaned as he said a heavy, “Yes.”

 

“How was it?”

 

“Oh Sherlock, it was fantastic, you are amazing, I’m sorry you don’t remember, but it’s not going to happen again, I promise.”

 

Sherlock hastily flipped over until they were facing each other. 

 

“WHAT?” he cried.

 

Quiet and resigned, John said, “Sherlock, I just gave you a seizure.  I’m not going to do that again.”

 

There was a long silence before Sherlock broke eye contact and admitted, “I don’t think I took my medicine today.”

 

“And did you eat?”

 

“No.”

 

“And have you slept?”

 

“No.”  Then raising his eyes to John, said simply, “I missed you.”

 

John gave him an accusing stare, then sprang out of bed, grabbed his clothes, and stomped out of the bedroom, slamming the door.  He dressed but couldn’t bring himself to leave.  He sat on the couch, head in his hands.  A few moments later, John heard his name gently called through the bedroom door.

 

“John?”

 

“I’m here.”

 

\--

 

John and Sherlock were not fighting.  They were spending all their spare time together and were as close as ever, but John wouldn’t go to Briset Street or do anything more intimate than kiss.  They sat their finals and the new semester began.  As always, John regularly texted and talked to Harry.  One day she asked,

 

_So?_

 

and John knew exactly what she meant. 

 

_Yeah_

_And?_

_He had a seizure.  Never again._

 

His phone range and he answered.

 

\--

 

One day, like any other, Sherlock was resting, head down, at the library, while John studied and absently played with his hair.  Sherlock’s hand was around John’s knee until it flopped.  John’s head immediately jerked up.  Sherlock closed his eyes as John began the exchange that they now had, at least once daily, since Winter break.

 

“Did you take your medicine?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Have you eaten?”

 

“Yes, John, damn it!”

 

Sherlock didn’t expect John’s simple, “I love you.”

 

Sherlock winced at the gentle reply to his outburst.

 

“And I’ve slept.  I’m doing everything I should, you just have to remember that my arm will always do that, no matter how well-controlled everything else is.”

 

John glanced at him with both understanding and disbelief. 

 

Sherlock continued, exasperated, “Ask Mycroft.  He showed up at Briset Street, threw me in the car and escorted me to a neurology appointment yesterday.  My doctor says I’m fine,” a pause.  “I even kicked Mycroft out of the room so I could ask her about…”

 

John looked confused. 

 

“About…oh.”

 

“She said its fine, she said I just hadn’t taken care of myself properly the few days before.  She said I just need to tend to myself and it’ll be fine.”

 

He saw both longing and fear in John’s eyes as he continued, “And I have been taking care of myself.  She said it’s fine, John.  Really.”

 

Sherlock realized that his voice had become pleading.  He watched John unconsciously wet his lips.

 

Sherlock said, “Let’s go to Briset Street and just…just see.”

 

“You know what will happen if we do.”

 

“And it’ll be fine.  Please.”

 

Sherlock felt desperate happiness and anticipation as he saw John’s resolve wane.  He smiled and took John’s hand.


	17. Again

Once at Briset Street, John asked, “What do you remember?”

 

Sherlock admitted, “Not much.  I think you were, um, giving, right?”

 

John smiled, “I guess so, if that’s how you want to say it.”  Then, pensively, “It was…pretty messy.”

 

Sherlock laughed delightedly. 

 

John concluded, “Let’s use condoms this time.”

 

Sherlock immediately headed to his room to put some out on the bed table with the bottle of lubricant.  Noticing that it was already half-empty, he raised an eyebrow at John, who merely shrugged back, smiling.

 

Sherlock could see John fidgeting, so he held out his hand and John took it.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“It’s insane. We’ve done this before, but you don’t remember.  It’s like suddenly I…have experience and I’ve…left you behind or something.”

 

Sherlock had to admit, it was rather bizarre.

 

“Hey, there’s no pressure here, John.  Want to just watch telly or something?”

 

“Yeah, actually.  That would be good.  Thanks.”

 

Sherlock led John back to the living room and stretched out on the couch.  John arranged himself on his chest as he browsed through shows.

 

“There,” John said as Sherlock moved passed one that John liked.

 

Sherlock was happy to let John watch the show while he gazed into the distance, thinking and drawing idle shapes on John’s back.  After some time, Sherlock noticed that John had nuzzled into his shoulder and felt hot breath on his skin before John kissed his neck.  He felt John work his way up until their lips met.  They kissed lazily, relaxed, until John purposely placed a knee on the couch between Sherlock’s thighs and used it to give his groin a tiny, gentle nudge.  Sherlock sat up and John straddled him.  Their kiss became more ardent as they wrapped their arms around each other and Sherlock gave small thrusts with his hips.  John drew back and they smiled at each other before going into the bedroom.

 

Some time later, the blanket had been completely thrown off the bed, condoms had been carefully placed and lubricant generously applied.  Sherlock had three fingers inside John and was listening to John’s whimpers. 

 

John said, struggling for coherence, “Yours is somewhere…forward…it feels like a – “ and was cut off by his own groaning exhale.

 

“…like that,” Sherlock said, almost to himself, as his fingers alighted on a bump inside John. 

 

He tickled and gently pushed on the bulge, watching John’s eyes squeeze shut and feeling John’s body squeeze his fingers.  Sherlock’s eyes were locked on John’s face, on the rapture of his expression and the crooked smile on his lips.  When John’s mouth became too tempting to resist, Sherlock removed his fingers and lurched up to kiss John.  John whined at the loss but eagerly kissed back.  As they kissed, their hips aligned but Sherlock’s body didn’t have easy access to John’s.  Without thinking, he put his hands under John’s thighs and lifted them a bit, tilting John’s hips upward.  Glancing down, he saw John’s opening and positioned himself accordingly.  He tentatively pushed in and, looking up, saw a sweat break across John’s forehead. 

 

When Sherlock was about halfway in John scrunched up his face and groaned, “Ow!  Ow ow ow!”

 

Sherlock withdrew but just as his head was appearing, John grabbed his hips, preventing him from completely retreating.  Sherlock felt John’s fingertips tip his hips toward his own, and Sherlock penetrated again, as slowly as he could.  When John made a pained expression Sherlock stopped but John held him still, not allowing him to back out.  John moved his own hips incrementally in various directions until suddenly his face relaxed and he opened his eyes.  Sherlock was shocked when John grabbed his hips and pulled them forcefully, almost violently in, bringing Sherlock’s body deep inside his.  Sherlock cried out and John whimpered ecstatically as their hips crushed together, and Sherlock immediately began moving, without rhythm or control.  He heard his own grunts and John’s erotic whine with each thrust.  Looking down, he watched himself move with John and realized that he could do more.  He gently clutched John’s penis and, completely uncoordinated, tried to move his hands and hips simultaneously.  His awkward attempts paid off when John soon came.  Watching John’s body pulse threw Sherlock over the edge and he came too.  The men relaxed, arms and legs askew, and Sherlock dropped his head onto John’s chest. 

 

John’s hands found Sherlock’s hair and stroked it absently until Sherlock said, “How could I forget that?!”


	18. Homeless

Sherlock was performing a violin piece he had composed as a final class project.  His evaluation committee watched attentively.  Although his left hand was trembling and eliciting more vibrato than usual, his right arm was steady.  He didn’t mind the eyes on his hand or the ears absorbing his music or the minds judging his work.  He was nervous for a different reason.

\--

John wandered around the flat at Compton Road, doing one last search to make sure he had packed all of his belongings.  Mike, with genuine regret, had told John that he and Kate wanted to live together, and John had immediately understood that he’d have to move out.  He was surprised at how nostalgic he felt as he drifted about the flat looking for straggling belongings.  Glancing into the bathroom he saw his robe hanging on one of the hooks.  He took it, stuffed it into a box, and taped the box shut.

John couldn’t fault Kate or Mike for the situation.  A secret part of his brain was a little envious, but the feeling was buried well enough that John couldn’t identify the cause of his restlessness.  He was moving back home, back to his mother’s house.  He didn’t have classes until the second half of summer semester, so he had several weeks to enjoy the company of Harry and his mum and to look for other accommodations closer to King’s.

Sherlock was, of course, staying on at Briset Street, this time for a Chemistry research project at Saint Bart’s.  He picked up John and his boxes at Compton Road and rested his hand on John’s knee through most of the drive to the Watson’s house.  His hand was slightly unsteady, but not convulsive, so John didn’t mention it.  There were comfortable lulls in their conversation, and once or twice John had thought Sherlock was about to say something, but he didn’t.

When they arrived at the Watson’s home, Sherlock helped John carry his things to his room, Mrs. Watson fussing along behind them.  Harry planted a chair on the middle of their path from the car to John’s room and participated in fragments of conversation as he and John went back and forth.  It only took a few trips, and soon all four were relaxing at the kitchen table having tea.  Harry complained jokingly about the loss of John’s room as extra storage space.  She looked at Sherlock as she muttered loudly about having to find a new home for her (extensive) record collection.

The men went upstairs to unpack and John was not surprised to see Sherlock unceremoniously dump his computer on the desk, but carefully arrange his shirts by color in the wardrobe.  After some time John had unpacked almost everything else and was reclining on the bed, amused, watching Sherlock hang the last blue shirt.  Sherlock finally came to lay next to John and inspect his work.  John was just putting her arm around him when he squinted, jumped up, and moved a shirt to a different place in line.  He came back to rest with John.  John was propped up on his pillow, hands behind his head, and Sherlock snuggled his head into John’s chest.

“You all done now?” asked John sarcastically.

“Yes,” replied Sherlock seriously.  Then, joking, “Only the best for my Johnny!”

Mrs. Watson knocked and entered without waiting.  She followed John and Sherlock’s line of vision to the shirts. 

“Oh Sherlock, how…nice,” she said as John added “compulsive” at the same time.

Harry nudged her way in and laughed delightedly. 

“And that’s Sherlock in a nutshell!”

Sherlock didn’t like the good-natured teasing, but John gave his shoulders a squeeze and rested his ear on Sherlock’s head. 

Harry said, “Come on mum,” and they left the room, Harry smiling but grumbling about her now homeless vinyl.

\--

As the days went on, John and Harry enjoyed their time together, although John did spend an inordinate amount of time texting Sherlock.  One day John was absently eating crisps as he did so.

“Mum,” Harry complained, “John is eating all the crisps.  My special, favorite crisps,” she said, laying it on thick.

John gave his mum an exasperated look.  Harry had obviously been enjoying John’s presence at home, yet had come up with a new complaint almost every day since he moved in.  All three of them knew she was joking, but it was starting to bother John.

She continued, “And I can’t take your typing any more.  The sound of you constantly texting Sherlock makes my ears ring.”

“Harry, texting is silent!” he almost yelled.  “What are you about?!”

Mrs. Watson suppressed a smile.

Harry pressed on, “Johnny, you’re a grown man, you shouldn’t be living with your mum,” silencing John’s obvious retort with a raised palm.  “I’m an invalid.  What you need is a nice little flat in the city.  Something close to school.  You ought to be able to afford one if you find yourself a flat-mate.  I’ve seen a lovely little place on Briset Street…” but was cut off by Mrs. Watson’s un-containable laughter.

She said, “Never one for subtlety, our Harry, but this past week or so has been hilarious, watching you two.  I love having you here Johnny, but I’m surprised you didn’t move right from Compton Road to Briset Street.”

All of Harry’s ludicrous and annoying complaints now made sense to John.  She was trying to push him out of the house…into Sherlock’s flat.  He wondered how big a role his mum had played in this highly irritating game.

He tried to remain calm as he said, “I haven’t been invited.”

Harry and Mrs. Watson turned to each other and raised their eyebrows, then Mrs. Watson left the room as Harry reached out to squeeze John’s hand.

“Do you really need an invitation, Johnny?”

That evening, Sherlock came to visit.  Harry dropped her appalling hints around Sherlock, who silently caught them all.

“Want to go out for a bit?” John asked Sherlock, pointedly.

“Sure,” he said, taking John’s hand as Harry winked.  John again noticed a slight tremor and again did not mention it.

Sherlock took John to Briset Street.  Sherlock watched John while John watched telly, and John could feel Sherlock’s nervousness.

“Okay,” said John impatiently as he turned to face Sherlock.  “What’s wrong.”

Sherlock only uttered an “Ummmm,” before he pulled John in for a kiss.

After some gentle kissing with sighs and roaming hands, John stopped.  Half mischievous, half serious, he slid off the couch onto one knee, holding one of Sherlock’s shaking hands.  Sherlock looked petrified.

John said, in a syrupy voice, “Sherlock Holmes, may I be your flat mate?”

Sherlock’s panic turned into affected annoyance.

“Idiot,” Sherlock said as he punched down on John’s shoulder, smiling.

John noticed that Sherlock’s hand was no longer trembling.

John said, “You were nervous.”

“Yes.  For an agonizing two weeks.  But I’m not anymore.”

“About what?”

“Asking you to live with me.”

“Idiot.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s settled now.  Want to go to my mum’s to pick up my stuff?”

“Yes.”

As Sherlock drove with steady hands, John texted Harry.

_Your records are no longer homeless._

And got a reply,

_Finally!_

 


End file.
